A Mother's Prayer
by Nedjmet
Summary: Sequel to 'A Father's Promise'. A second act, a second chance? Two hearts broken, two lives unfolding anew. One living with the memory a father's promise, one living with the hope of a mother's prayer. AN: Surprise for you!
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: To those of you have read _A Father's Promise_: I said it would be up soon. My reward/thanks to you for such tremendous feedback. I could try for months - as I seem to be wont to do - but I would still fail to express how much your reviews, comments, criticisms and praises all meant to me. Forgive me if that sounds cheesy, but it's true.**

**For those of you who haven't read _A Father's Promise_: don't read beyond this prologue. If this intrigues you, then go and read the story it follows. And by the way, it DOES follow, so you'll need to read it to make sense of what's to come.**

**To any and all who are reading this: thank you, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.

Prologue

The theatre was old. And everything about it was forbidding: from the dark stone it was built of to the gothic façade that adorned the front, challenging anyone to look on it with anything less than awe. Had it been night instead of late afternoon, the picture would have been complete.

It was perfect.

The young woman staring up at it finally gathered the nerve to enter. Refusing to look around, knowing she would be lost in the wonder of the place, she merely asked the first person she saw for directions. As silently as a ghost, she made her away along the strange yet familiar corridors. She heard him before she came in sight of the room. Smiling, she thought on how little things had changed over the years. Finally reaching her goal, she quietly opened the door and stuck her head round it. The rehearsal room was simple, though from the sounds of the orders being given, the activity within was anything but.

Finally realising that the attention of the musicians was not focussed solely on him as it should have been, the conductor turned her way, ready to take all his frustrations out on the intruder who dared interrupt the master at work. Catching sight of her, his jaw dropped and she disappeared before he could pick it up again, satisfied that he'd received her message.

Turning back along the corridors, she allowed her feet to trace a path that felt as though she'd walked it a thousand times before. Disappearing into the depths of the theatre, she came across a door that had obviously sat unopened for a very long time. Reaching into her bag, she took out the key and placed it in the lock, taking a steadying breath before she turned it.

Astonishingly, the room truly was untouched, but that did not make it any less wonderful. She made her way silently inside. Everywhere the eye could see; dust lay thick and smooth.

Everywhere she looked, she saw magic.

As she moved around the large dressing room, that feeling pervaded. Everything about the place, even that which she had dared not gaze upon for fear of drowning; everything had enchanted her. Now, within this room, she could feel something creeping over her that had almost been forgotten. Reaching the picture that hung in pride of place on the wall, she saw what she had been looking for, and mouthed in wonder:

"_Music._"

Turning to one of the cupboards, she unlocked it carefully and took out what was hidden within. Once everything was in place, she removed her glasses, just in time to hear the quiet, reverent knock on the door. She heard it open, but kept her back to the man she knew had entered, waiting until the portal closed once more. Then she opened her mouth and let Music speak as only it could.

"But come ye back in homage of Paddy's day, or when the music's all but gone away, 'Tis I'll be here in melody or silence," turning, at last she faced him and saw the tears in his eyes, "Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny boy at last, I'm home!"

Folding her in his arms, in utter astonishment at last he whispered:

_Katie

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_

**AN: Now seriously, what did you think was going on as you were reading? Tell me or I'll wait a week to write the next chapter:) N.**


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Thanks to Passed Over, KyrieofAccender, Kinetic Asparagus, montaquecat and CarolROI for the first reviews of the story, and congratulations to CarolROI for being the only one to guess what was really going on.**

**Well, as Passed Over put it, I do love playing with you. Here's the answer to that spot of confusion that got (almost) everyone. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission. Chapter 2 

Chapter 1

Christine sat across from Daniel Arneau as his mouth continued to work like that of a goldfish. Whilst it wasn't the manifestation she had been hoping for, it was the exact response she'd been counting on.

At length, he managed to collect his wits about him and address the young redhead sat on his couch.

"Forgive me, my dear, it's just . . . you look so like her and your voice . . . At risk of being struck down, I'd say it was even better than hers."

"Sure an' you'd better not be sayin' such tings around here, Danny boy. Even if it is to me; she might still get you for it." she replied, a thick Irish brogue heightening the humour in her voice and causing him to start in surprise once again.

"Is that . . . do you really . . ?"

"It isn't my natural accent," she answered, slipping back into her true one, "but Mama was proud of her heritage and it was hard not to pick it up."

"Then you truly are the daughter of Katie O'Neill." She nodded, even though it wasn't a question.

"How did . . . I do beg your pardon, child, I'm not usually this flustered."

"I know." Christine smiled knowingly.

"Were it not for the fact you've said otherwise and that I – sadly – know better, I would swear that Katie O'Neill was sat before me. How did you manage it?"

"After you called, I dug up everything I had about when Mama worked here, from her time in wardrobe right through to her last performance. I remember every story she or Papa ever told me about The Clover, and together with what Madame Giry has spent the last week feeding me, it wasn't hard to accomplish.

"I've always had the key to her dressing room. Papa gave it to me, just in case . . . and I knew the rest anyway," she went on, idly playing with her hair, "so here I am, as requested."

"In all honesty, when I asked if you could help, it was mostly out of courtesy to your mother's memory. Although seeing you here, I must say I am overwhelmed. I think your very presence could do more than I ever anticipated."

Sitting up a little, emphasising the seriousness with which she spoke, Christine addressed the old conductor before her.

"Now that I am here, what exactly do you think I can do to help?"

"How much do you really know about your mother's performances?" She bowed her head, considering her answer carefully.

"For every performance my father attended, I know every step she took, every move she made and every note she sang. I have the cues and costumes for most of her roles and the ones Papa didn't see – her earlier ones, I know them pretty well."

"At least half of the concert is already taken care of," holding up his hand, he stopped her interruption at that little surprise, "but for the other, I've conferred with the management and as far as is possible without dishonouring her, we want to bring Katie back to the stage." Seeing her look of scepticism, he explained: "She hasn't trodden the boards of The Clover for twenty years, but she's still remembered even today. I know she'd have my head if we got an impersonator-"

"She wouldn't be the only one." Christine muttered under her breath.

"-and obviously I'd have to hear you properly first . . ."

Christine turned back to him, the reality of what he was suggesting dawning on her slowly. It was her turn to play the goldfish.

"Are you saying . . ?"

"Christine, you had me convinced that Katie had returned, and there are few who knew the theatre side of her better than I. Now, I'd never ask you to impersonate her. I'm asking you to bring her back to everyone who's remembered her all these years. Help me pay tribute to her." Seeing her still uncertain, his voice became stern. "Lass, if you knew that wretched version of '_Danny Boy_' then you know how often I give out auditions on such a short acquaintance."

She smiled at that. Few were ever allowed to address Monsieur Arneau by his first name, and it was a well-known fact – to those who'd been around in her day – that only Katie O'Neill could get away with calling him Danny Boy. The idea of it alone drove him up the wall, but all she had to do was sing and he gave in. Their little routine had been one of the things that made her so much fun to work with.

"Alright. I had planned to stay here the week anyway, seeing as you agreed to my arrangements. But if you want me to 'audition', then I have one request."

"Name it." She noted that he diplomatically didn't agree or disagree straight away. Good, he was just as he'd been described.

"Don't let anyone see me." He frowned in confusion.

"I don't understand."

"If someone saw me, it would give it all away, and nothing's been agreed upon. Besides, my mother taught me well. I'm fairly confident it wouldn't take me long to discover a few secrets of this place." A conspiratorial smile crept across her lips and Daniel began to catch on.

"Are you suggesting that Katie's Ghost could be haunting this place?" he asked with a smile equal to hers.

"I doubt it would take long for an O'Neill to find out." The brogue had returned, as it inevitably did whenever she was addressed by her mother's name.

Daniel shook his head in wonder.

"You really are her daughter, aren't you." She shot him a look that said he'd better not doubt it.

"Alright, we'll do it your way." Smiling, she finally sought to have her curiosity satisfied.

"Now what did you mean by 'at least half of the concert is already taken care of'?"

"I've been trying to do a tribute to her for years, but we've never managed to find the right angle. Then a few weeks before I found you, we got a call out of the blue. A singer-songwriter wanted to play his first concert here. He's quite new, but he's already got a large following, even though he's only been around for months and never been seen. Management did turn him down at first until he mentioned that he was hoping to perform in memory of Katie.

"You have to know that I was against the idea at first. His music doesn't strike me as being her sort of thing, but he insisted that he would make it the sort of concert she would have loved."

"Then you've heard him?" Christine asked, thoroughly intrigued by the mystery, if only because it sounded vaguely familiar.

"Musically, yes, but not since that last conversation. He is certainly gifted, and his contract has been signed, sealed and delivered, as it were."

"But you're still not decided."

"I think it would take an O'Neill to manage that." The conspirator within surfaced again.

"You want the O'Neill seal of approval?" He nodded. "You haven't changed a bit, have you, Danny?"

"I see the O'Neill women remain as charming as ever." He retaliated with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"And just when am I supposed to do that?" She humoured him, returning to the original discussion point.

"Well if you can find your way around, you can watch his rehearsal in about two hours. He's on his way here."

"Who is he anyway?"

"His name's Erik. Erik Destler."


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thanks to Melodic Rose (double thanks), phantom-jedi1 (double thanks), Timeflies (double thanks), Passed Over, CarolROI, KyrieofAccender, jtbwriter, Lothiel, Nyasia A. Maire, StakeMeSpike04, Lady Winifred (double thanks), TalithaJ, Lovegoddess567, Ripper de la Blackstaff, mildetryth (double thanks), scorpionorchid, montaquecat, - 19MikaelA87 -, and PhantomPhluter for their latest reviews.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission. 

Chapter 2

Armed with the memories of stories both her parents had told her – and a few handy pieces of paper taken from the myriad of things she had brought to The Clover – Christine began to explore the theatre.

The Clover was the original name for the place, but it had long since officially changed its name to The Meyer after being bought by a gentleman of the same name. Said gentleman had not been a particular favourite of those who worked there, and one of their many subversive acts of rebellion had been to keep the original name as far as they were able. That had been long before an O'Neill had set foot in the place, but having been so charmed by the tale – and having such a fierce loyalty to anything remotely Irish – Katie had reignited the tradition that had slipped into myth and only been maintained by a few. That was actually the reason why Christine had had such a hard time finding directions to the place – she'd all but forgotten its modern name. Once inside though, even if it was for the first time, directions were not something she had to ask for.

For the most part, the hallways at the back of the theatre were empty; people either working around the stage or in their rooms – if they were there at all. Once or twice though at junctions, someone walking along a different corridor would see her, and out of the corner of her eye she would catch them doing a double take. Of course, she would then promptly alter her path and make sure she wasn't seen if they came looking for her. At one point, she did run into someone – quite literally – gave a quick apology with a heavy Irish accent and then promptly disappeared from sight. The poor man was left standing there looking as if he'd seen a ghost. From around the corner, Christine smiled, not a malicious smile mind; one of good humour that she knew would be shared once the contagious superstitions of the theatre had been ignited and eventually laid to rest. It was these suspicions that had her wandering so much instead of moving in to her mother's old apartments that were hidden away at the very rear of the building, as she had arranged with Danny. Since the concert had been announced, pictures of Katie O'Neill had been on display everywhere. She'd been the topic of much conversation, seeing as not everyone working at the theatre had their own memories of her or knew why she'd been given such an honour. Once word got out of the redheaded figure in black wandering the theatre, appearing out of nowhere, then it would surely spread – as if the local interest in the event wasn't enough already.

Checking her watch, she altered her course one last time – confusing an unfortunate cleaner who suddenly began to question the contents of her flask – and headed towards the levels directly above the backstage area. Several times she had to pause and hide: if she was going to pull this off, it was imperative that she remain unseen in this neck of the woods.

Satisfied that no one was around, she moved over to one of the walls near the flies, placed her hands on it and began feeling the wood, searching for . . . there! The architect who had designed this place had been covertly attempting to pay homage to the Opera Populaire in Paris and as a result it was riddled with little passages and hideaways. Few knew of them and as far as Arneau had been aware, her mother had been the only one who had known how to find them in . . . more years than he was prepared to admit to. Sliding the panel away, she crept in, crouching down to walk along the low passage. When it finally ended, she knelt down and peered through the grate that granted her a perfect view of the stage. Checking her cramped surroundings, she was relieved to discover there was very little dust; any sound made in here would be amplified and end up making its way across half the auditorium. Her mother used to claim that if a person knew just what they were doing, they could make a sound carry around the whole area.

Calming her breathing, she settled down and waited. It wasn't long before a number of people arrived, setting up various pieces of equipment on the stage, testing for sound and lighting. She could hear the clamour of action backstage, and somehow she knew it wasn't entirely owing to the work that needed to be done. A number of people gathered and seated themselves near the stage. She recognised Daniel Arneau, the conductor who had served The Clover well for many years including when Katie O'Neill had been 'discovered'. Two gentlemen were sat next to him, one of a similar age, one much younger. Management? They certainly bore themselves with enough confident authority. A group of rather excited people soon joined them; probably working for or with the famous Mr. Destler.

Darkness fell.

The entire place was devoid of light and Christine felt the old fears rapidly stirring at the unexpectedness of it – not to mention she was in a tight space hovering a long way above the stage!

Then she heard it.

A lone, rich voice rose out of the silence. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a gasp. Would that she could see! Was it her panicked imagination, or. . ? Surely no two people in this world could have been blessed with a voice like that . . . it couldn't be . . . but she had heard his voice raised in such pain and longing, heard him sing so gently before . . . and there was no other sound to be heard.

"I hear a baby crying, A sad sound, a lonely sound, I want to take her in my arms, And then I dry away all her tears.

"I see a boy, who's frightened, A young boy, with old eyes, I long to say 'You're welcome here, You can be happy now that you're warm.'"

Leaning forward, she heard a piano join in with a soft melody and astonishingly turn the words into something more hopeful.

"We're all a part of one world, We all can share the same dream, And if you just reach out to me, Then you will find deep down inside, I'm just like you."

The music swelled and rose, and with it the lights that had only been faint in the refrain were strong and focussed on the man at the centre of the stage, who sang with passion that sounded as though it was barely being held in check.

"Loud voices raised in anger, Speak harsh words, such cruel words, Why do they speak so selfishly, When we have got so much we can share?

"So let your hearts be open, And reach out with all your love, There are no strangers now, They are our brothers now, And we are one."

He moved around the stage and she watched his every step captivated, though he remained facing the 'audience'.

"We're all a part of one world, We all can share the same dream, And if you just reach out to me, Then you will find deep down inside, I'm just like you."

Returning to the centre, he became still and the music softened until there remained his voice alone – as if any further ornamentation could be needed.

"We're all a part of one world, We all can share the same dream, And if you just reach out to me, Then you will find deep down inside, I'm just like you." The lights went out, and yet one thought still echoed around the hall.

"I'm just like you."

Christine dared not move her hand. The song was perfect, as was the voice that sang it. Whenever her mother had given her her bedtime story, she had always sung her to sleep afterward. And that was one of the songs that . . . but no one knew that song! How was it possible?

The lights came back on.

The dark-haired man clothed simply in black stood there waiting. Still she couldn't see him. Was it really . . .? Would he actually sing something like that? She had heard him sing of darkness, of passion, of music. To sing of such a pure hope, of belonging, of being a part of the world . . . it was more than she would ever have dared to think possible. Still he was waiting.

Conjuring up a yawn, she relaxed her vocal chords. As she let the familiar words pour forth, most were startled and looked about to try and find where the voice was coming from. She saw his shoulders stiffen a split second before his head whipped around to the very place where she was concealed and it was all she could do to finish the simple line.

"Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán."


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Thanks to terbear, UinenDolothen, KyrieofAccender, Timeflies, Lothiel, Nyasia A. Maire (double thanks), PhantomPhluter, phantom-jedi1, jtbwriter, mildetryth, Nedjset (double thanks), Melodic Rose, Kinetic Asparagus (double thanks), pictureperfexi0n, StakeMeSpike04, montaquecat, Lili Sinclair, -19MikaelA87-, Lady Winifred and smartblondee for their latest reviews.**

**Apologies for the slight delay. At last I have two betas! So if anyone notices a sudden improvement in the quality of my writing, the credit now also goes to phantom-jedi1 and GT of Kinetic Asparagus. Guys, one huge great big THANK YOU!! We're just starting out and experiencing a few communication problems, hence the slight delay. I'm not blaming them, just the wonderful weird web.**

**As requested by several of you, the Gaelic line comes from _Siúil a Ruin_ and I made use of it on a few occasions in _A Father's Promise_. _Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán_ means 'And safe for aye may my darling be' Our favourite phantom used it to calm Christine after Buquet's attack, and she remembered her mother singing it when she was trying to decide what to do just before Don Juan. Plus, on its own, it kinda works as a goodwill gesture.**

**If anyone's wondering, this is where I get my translations from for the lyrics: http/ www . geocities . com / celticlyricscorner / soundtracks / lordofthedance . htm**

**To everyone else: thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission. 

Chapter 3

Even after so much time had passed, he still sometimes found himself stopping and wondering at the fact he was able to wander in the daylight so freely. Standing before this place though, the feeling was magnified beyond anything he'd expected. So many memories . . . still he couldn't quite shake the feeling that the theatre had been a prison.

Taking a breath, he resumed the walk that would forever change his life and invariably lead to the end of his anonymity. Both Clive and Edward had been urging him to give a performance for what felt like an age. Whilst he knew it made sense – his elusiveness coupled with his voice could end up raising the wrong questions – it was, nevertheless, a very . . . uncomfortable proposition. So long he had dwelt in the shadows; taking this final step and venturing into the light was incomprehensible, even to his mind – or perhaps, especially so. But he had promised that he would live . . . he had promised _her_.

All this time and he still couldn't speak her name. After she had left, he'd spent countless days thinking he was on the brink of madness or – the more welcome alternative – death, and whilst her name had been his only solace, it had also been a further twist of the bitter knife. Since writing that letter though, he had been able to close the door a little on that, and could now think of her without breaking down – so long as her name remained unsaid. Without a name, it was easier to think of her as a dream. And that was what he needed, seeing as she was the other reason why he had been reluctant to perform: the one and only other time he had sung before others, she had been at his side and in his arms.

But he could refuse her nothing; he would live and so he would perform. And there was nowhere else he could hold his first concert than the place where his musical 'career' had truly begun. Would that Katie were here to see it. But he would still make her proud, show her that her work had not been for naught, show her what she had meant to him; but most of all, he would thank her for the gift she had twice given him, if only for short times.

Entering The Clover through the front door was a truly bizarre experience, particularly in the daylight, but it gave him a certain sense of power; a rush that he felt each time he did something so . . . ordinary. Not bothering to announce his presence, he made his way along the familiar corridors and eventually ran into a member of his crew. It was still strange to have so many people working directly for him without his old ways, and it had taken him some time to 'tone down' his rather abrupt attitude with everyone. A quiet word here and there and his arrangements were made with the assurance that they would be met. Incredible! Relatively unknown, and yet he could still wield influence inside his . . . this theatre. The Clover wasn't his; never had been. It was Katie's, and would remain so as long as her memory was kept alive.

Waiting in the shadows until the lights went down, he silently went over the song he was about to sing. No one in the place knew it – it was one Katie had sung to him when his grief or temper had gotten the best of him and he'd refused to let her near. One song from her and all was right with the world, and she always seemed to know the right one for the moment. The words of _One World_ were not the sort of thing he would ordinarily sing or even consider, seeing as the message within the refrain could not be further from reality if they tried. On the other hand, it summed up so much of who Katie O'Neill had been that he could not begin with any other.

Finally!

Darkness spread its cloak and taking up the familiar mantle, he allowed his voice to carry across the entire room, binding all there within its spell. He did not sing with all the power he possessed – this was not the right music for that – instead he sang with all the knowledge he had of what the song mentioned; pain, longing, rejection, cruelty and even hope – though it was with a great effort that he summoned up the latter memories and kept his countenance.

He had to resist a wince when the lights came back up, but looking out he saw there was no need for it: his audience – such as it was – was spellbound. As darkness fell once more, he continued to watch them as he finished the song; and knew that he'd made the right decision. He would make Katie proud.

The lights came up. Nothing. His people looked confused. Those gathered from The Clover remained still. What was going on? They had shown evident signs of approval as he had performed; listening attentively, the right emotions flitting across their features. Not one word now that they had the chance?

_Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán._

It wasn't possible!

Even before the first word had finished, he'd whipped round to look up at the old grate. Moments after it ended, he saw movement and . . . a flash of red! He would have continued staring, but the belated applause finally broke out and he was called back to the task at hand. Absent-mindedly he shook the hands of his audience as they finally made their way onto the stage.

"You seem rather dazed, Mr Destler." Arneau commented, which drew back his full attention.

"Surprised. I didn't expect to be serenaded."

"Yes, my apologies if it bothered you." Paul Horton, the latest manager, replied before calling up to the flies, "You up there, what is the meaning of this? Who was that?"

One of the stage hands promptly called back down:

"Dunno, sir. There's no one here. It must have been a ghost." Horton frowned, clearly not appreciating the answer. Arneau smiled, and Erik wondered – not least at the irony.

"Whatever it was, again allow me to extend my apologies."

He looked at the manager, saw the youth of his years and realised that he probably didn't know.

"There is nothing to apologise for," looking to Arneau for confirmation, he continued, "there are few who are ever given the O'Neill blessing to perform on this stage. I am honoured to be the first in what I can only assume is a long time."

Arneau nodded before adding:

"Indeed. I was sceptical at first, given your previous recordings, but I would not argue with an O'Neill, and I do believe you will more than do her memory justice. Might I ask: how did you know?" Subtly, he gestured to the grate above them to illustrate the full meaning of his question.

"I was privileged to know Miss O'Neill. It is not the first time I have had those words sung to me, though it is the first from this vantage point."

"Arneau, you're not seriously suggesting that Katie O'Neill was singing?" Horton said, trying to laugh it off.

"Sir, I suggest you take Miss O'Neill more seriously. This is still her theatre and even if it were otherwise, she is not to be laughed at. There are many here who would object to such behaviour." Erik said quietly, the icy steel of his voice silencing the young manager far more effectively than his words. Realising he was defeated, and attempting to salvage some scrap of dignity, he bowed his head in polite acquiescence and walked away. Arneau was about to follow suit when a hand on his arm stopped him.

"That wasn't Katie." Arneau's mouth opened slightly in shock. No one ever called her by her first name without either her permission or a serious reprimand, yet the man stood before him made no bones about his wording. He spoke as though to himself.

"Would that it were." Daniel answered carefully. "Do you have any idea-"

"It wasn't a ghost. It was an angel."

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He'd spent a ridiculous amount of time with Horton, ensuring that all would be arranged as he'd requested, confirming the outline of the concert, etc. Based on the length of time it took, and the attitude of the man, he spent most of it wondering why he'd ever given up on his original method. Ah, yes: fear bred discontent. This way he had the full support of the management without any 'hunts'. After sitting through that meeting though, he seriously doubted whether the alternative wasn't actually preferable. 

Finally free, he found himself in the corridors behind the scenes. Here was the life of the theatre; this was what he had always witnessed, watched over, yet never taken part in. As people passed him, they occasionally smiled, which still caught him off guard – though he had long ago learnt to conceal that.

His feet eventually led him to a very familiar door that had obviously sat unopened for a very long time. Wait! The dust had been disturbed on the handle. Someone had been in here. He looked again in wonder . . .

He had seen her watching performances from up there, auditions, critiquing. Occasionally, she would sing those words indicating that the performer was welcome on her stage. Only she would have the audacity and favour to do such a thing and still perform unscathed. Several times he had watched with her and they would silently converse over the quality of what they were hearing. Yet no matter how many times it happened, his breath would always catch as he heard the notes pour from her mouth.

The moment he heard _that_ voice though, those memories had paled into mediocrity. Was it possible he had forgotten, or had she improved? Wait: was it possible that it was _she_? He had been thinking of both of them before he'd begun, perhaps his mind . . . no. Even at the height of his depression he had never been driven to such sweet madness. But how could anyone have known who she was? Or had she come forward?

Was she even now behind this door?

Of its own volition, his hand rose to the handle. One move, one touch and he would have his answer.

_No!_

Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to find out, to see her again. All but one: he had promised that he would let her live in peace. That was why he was going back today – and he had a few things that needed to be taken care of. He had hoped to see The Clover properly, but dared not risk it for fear that he wasn't strong enough. For fear that he hadn't imagined . . . _her_.

Dropping his hand to his side, he let out a small breath of frustration and resignation and turned to go.

He stopped when he saw the redhead at the end of the corridor staring at him.

_Katie_

He'd heard _her_ voice, and yet Katie stood before him. His jaw dropped in shock. Katie was dead. He'd seen her grave. He looked again. Katie had green eyes. The woman before him had blue. Unmistakably, she had blue . . . very familiar blue eyes. She fidgeted with her hands and he saw . . .

On her right hand was a diamond ring with a unique design that he would know anywhere. It was the ring he'd given to . . .

_Christine_


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Thanks to phantom-jedi1, Lady Winifred, Timeflies, mildetryth, CarolROI, terbear, UinenDolothen, erfsings, Lothiel, KyrieofAccender, smartblondee, -19MikaelA87-, montaquecat, Melodic Rose, Nedjset, Lili Sinclair, Nyasia A. Maire (get well soon, hon), pictureperfexi0n, StakeMeSpike04, OperaLover, and Norma Leann Zane for their latest reviews. And also to jtbwriter, yes I did get your message.**

**Thanks again, everyone, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.

Chapter 4

As soon as she saw his face, she knew it was a mistake.

When she had finally finished that line, she had clamped her hand over her mouth again to try and stop anything else coming out. If she hadn't, undoubtedly she would have cried to her Angel. Everything was screaming that her Angel was stood on that stage: the way he moved, the way he looked . . . his voice. But for the fact that he was stood on that stage. How was it possible? How was it possible that his face was so . . . perfect? Where were the scars, the marks, the mask even? In their stead was a half to match the other, resulting in a perfect whole belonging to a man who was not clinging to the shadows, a man who was stood openly awaiting praise or criticism – not that there was any criticism to be had – all without fear.

Was this really her Angel?

Hurrying along the little tunnel and into the main corridor, she headed . . . where? Where could she go? Surely he'd still be on stage? Everyone would want to speak with him, review his performance, etc. Absent-mindedly, her fingers found the ring on her right hand, as they were wont to do whenever she was anxious or had her Angel on her mind. Now she was both. As soon as she heard footsteps, she remembered that by her own wishes, she was not meant to be seen and promptly headed back to her mother's dressing room.

When she turned the corridor, she stopped as she saw the figure by the door. She saw him reach for the handle and stop. She saw him let out a sigh of . . . what? Frustration? Then she saw him turn, and she finally saw _him_.

He'd been at such a distance before, still she had thought it was . . .

Standing so much closer, she saw she had been right: his face truly was perfect now. If it was indeed him, then it was impossible to tell that there had ever been anything close to a deformity marring his features. That was why she doubted, especially now that there was only silence and she did not have his voice to reassure her. It could have been in her mind. After all, how often had thoughts of her Angel eased her fears, no matter how much they tortured her?

Those eyes. Only his eyes could burn like that, as though into the very depths of her soul. Only his eyes had ever poured fire into her veins. Only the eyes of her Angel could possess her so effortlessly and so completely.

_Angel_

Her fingers reached for the ring before she realised, his eyes followed their path and she saw his look of wonder, of inquiry change to one of recognition.

He knew.

In spite of her behaviour, her appearance, the hair, he knew who she was. There was no denying the presence of the ring on her finger, and she doubted her face had concealed her own astonishment when she too realised who she was staring at.

Then she heard it.

Turning quickly, she saw Danny calling out to her the word that meant she had to disappear. Looking back at her dark mentor, he had begun moving toward her and was mere feet away. Hoping the look on her face conveyed an apology rather than anything else, she ran back along the corridor, hastily hunted out the little mark and disappeared through one of the walls. Closing the panel as quickly as it had opened, she placed her ear next to it and listened. Hurried footsteps paused within inches of her. She knew who they belonged to, heard their heavy tread as they went back to meet Daniel and whomever was accompanying him that she was meant to remain concealed from.

Opening the door behind her, she stepped out of the wardrobe in her mother's dressing room, sank onto the comfortable old couch and summoned up every scrap of will she had left not to cry.

As soon as she saw his face, she knew it was a mistake.

He had been moving towards her, reaching out for her and she had run. She had run away from him and she saw that that was exactly how he had interpreted it. He'd come looking for her! Then why had he refused to enter the room? To even knock? With shaking hands, she reached for one of the bags she'd brought, the one that went everywhere with her. Inside were her treasures – some of them. Carefully, she took out the small case that contained a slip of paper, keeping it flat and safe. Looking over the familiar handwriting, she searched the words even though she had long since learnt them by heart.

_I tried to give you your freedom;_

_But I could not let you go . . ._

_. . . you haunt me . . ._

_I will let you live in peace . . ._

He had not come in because he always kept his word, and he had promised to leave her alone. But he had come because he always kept his word, and his words said that he could not let her go. Truly, he had met his promise. If she had haunted him at all these last years, then he had more than returned the favour.

_Christine, I love you._

Quickly and carefully, she replaced her Angel's final note to her lest her tears spoil it as familiar notes of another kind filled her thoughts. He had spoken of love several times, but he had only ever said those words once: still they were as familiar to her as breath. How many times had they possessed her mind in the months following that fateful night? How many times had his broken voice haunted her dreams as she had known it would? How many times had she woken, crying out for her Angel, only to be met with nothingness? All she had to do was think of him, and the words would invariably soon follow. Now that she had at last heard his voice again, they came back all too clearly. Now that she had seen his face, his broken one appeared before her all too vividly, along with the knowledge that she had been the one to do it both then and now.

It had taken her some time to manage it, but she had reconciled herself to the fact that no matter what he felt for her, she had failed him too often, which is why he had remained steadfast in his decision to send her away. There wasn't a day that went by when she hadn't regretted it, hadn't wished she'd tried harder to talk to him, to get him to see reason, to see that she hadn't sought him such harm. Then of course, she would remember that it was what he wanted, and she would fill her thoughts with music as he wished – even though it was usually his music that would promptly haunt her. He had sent her away, had let her go.

Then _WHY_ had he been reaching out for her? _Why_ had he come looking for her?

Hearing the knock on the door, she quickly wiped her eyes and checked that they weren't too reddened. No. Good, at least something positive had come of all the tears she'd shed – she was good at hiding any sign of them.

"Come in." she called, her Irish brogue thickening, as it usually did whenever she was particularly emotional.

"Ready to prove you're an O'Neill?"

"Are you daring to question me on that, Danny boy?" she asked the conductor in half-mock indignation. Looking in the mirror one last time before joining him, she once again saw the face of another and quietly whispered a quick prayer to it.

"Help me, Mama."

* * *

She had run. 

She had taken one look at him and run. Sitting in the shadows, there was little else going through his mind. What had he been thinking? That she would take one look at him, fall into his arms and . . . he didn't know where that train of thought went, for he had always managed to catch himself before falling into the honey trap of sweet madness.

He had seen in her eyes that she recognised him, even after . . . she still knew him. True, he'd surprised her, probably shocked was more accurate. And she had run. It was probably only to be expected; after all, he'd let her go. How long had it taken her to realise that it was the better decision; that she had simply been caught up in the moment, in trying to save her '_friend_'? Even now, his hands clenched thinking about that boy.

Had she even gotten his note? The words he had written remained true, even after all this time: she possessed his every thought, haunted his every waking moment. No matter that he had tried, he could not forget her; would not give up that sweet torment for anything. Yet he had tried, for it had proved to be torment indeed, beyond any other that he had known. He had managed to get to the point where he could have her in his thoughts without going mad; could get through a day without her being so prominent in his mind. But seeing her again, hearing her voice singing for him once more only reinforced all too painfully that it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Were it not for the fact that he always kept his word, that he could deny her nothing, he would have broken his promise to her long ago – whether it was the promise to live or to let her be, he could never quite decide.

But he had let her go, had let her live in peace. He had left the path clear for her boy. After so long, he would have thought they would be engaged, if not married – no matter how deeply those particular knives cut.

Then _why_ was she wearing his ring? True, it did not grace the hand she had put it on that night, but she wore it nevertheless. And her other hand was bare. He reached for the chain around his neck and felt its pendant beneath his shirt. Why did she wear his ring, and why had she given him her mother's? When he had finally dared look at the ring she'd placed in his hand, he had all but fallen to the floor in astonishment. He thought she'd returned his ring to him as a sign that he was to be free as well. That it was over. But that ring was her mother's, she'd called it 'one of her treasures,' as good as said that she would never part with it. At first, he thought that perhaps she knew. But no, she'd never done or said anything to indicate that, and she had been _completely_ astonished to see him.

What was she doing? What had she done?

She had given him hope.

And then she had run.

When he heard the footsteps approaching, his instinct told him to hide, and indeed for a few moments his reflexes obeyed. Then he remembered that he was 'permitted' to be here, accepted. He would enjoy the luxury and pursue his thoughts later; no doubt they would still be occupying him then.

He was somewhat surprised when a choir began to arrange themselves behind a curtain that divided the stage in two. The orchestra came in and began tuning as he watched on with no small amount of curiosity. There hadn't been word of any other rehearsals today. It took them some time to get set up, and though there was no sign of Arneau, they seemed to know exactly what they were doing – which pages to turn to, etc.

At length, the conductor appeared and, seeing Mr. Destler sitting in the stalls, he moved nearer and invited him down. When would he stop being caught off guard by such occurrences? Soon, he was sitting in one of the wings just off stage, waiting in anticipation for whatever was set to happen.

Within one bar, he knew exactly what that was.

Sure enough, just as the second measure of the opening fanfare began, there she stood, arms by her sides, eyes closed as she let the music wash over her. Her breathing was calm, steady, yet he knew she was nervous. As the introduction proper began, she walked onto the stage, matching the pulse step for step. Stopping as close to the curtain as she could be, she remained facing the side, allowing the familiar words to come forth, turning to face the auditorium with opened eyes as she gestured to the 'sky above'.

"All believing, all embracing; Earth below and sky above. There will never be a power greater than united love.

"O light of hope enduring, ever in our hearts reside. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

Again, she switched the gestures, echoing her right hand with her left. Again, she allowed herself to be carried forward with the second verse until she was at the front of the stage for the next refrain, every step and motion growing stronger and more confident along with each note.

"All as one in every nation, by our bearing will be found; Peace the true and humble treasure through compassion will be found.

"O light of clearest vision, no illusion shall divide. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

As she gestured to the left for the repeat, her eyes caught sight of him, and though her hands faltered, her voice did not waver. Good girl. When she sang of no illusion dividing the second time though, her eyes were filled with meaning.

This time, as she stepped back, the curtain rose and surprise swamped her features as she saw the choir surrounding her on each side. Still, she chewed her lip a little nervously, but it was with a smile that rivalled the glory of the Ravelle chandelier. When she moved forward, so did they. Though she remained ahead of them, it was not so far that she was not a part of the group – just like Katie.

"Side by side though oceans part us, one by one it's understood; day by day the dawn is breaking on the bond of brotherhood.

"O light of pure intention, all dissension cast aside. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

The music died down as she began the repetition, her gestures becoming more subtle and graceful. But when the others resumed their part, the joy pouring off her was almost tangible as she allowed Music to carry her voice beyond their mere mortal offerings. When the music finally ceased, she immediately dropped her hands, eyes shut in the fatigue that comes at the close of any performance.

Silence.

No one moved a muscle, no one spoke. At length, she opened her eyes and – without moving her head – looked around nervously. Finally, she put a hand on her hip, and in that Irish brogue that he couldn't decide whether it was annoying or endearing, she upbraided Arneau.

"Sure, an' I thought if it were that bad you'd 'ave stopped playin', Danny boy."

Several of the older members of the choir looked appropriately shocked. Arneau calmly placed his baton on the lectern and moved towards the stage. Obediently, she knelt down to hear him. He took her hand, kissed the back of it and simply said:

"Welcome home, my dear."

"It is grand to be home." she answered softly. Rising, as her hand was released, she was promptly surrounded by the congratulations of the choir, each of whom she responded to graciously, if somewhat flustered.

Rising from his seat, he made his way towards her, the path before him clearing as easily as if he were guised as the Red Death. Realising that there was someone behind her, she turned and faced him, her features as unreadable as his masks had been. Slowly, he extended his hand, which she accepted. Indulging himself, he brought her skin to his lips as he greeted her:

"Miss . . . O'Neill?"

"Mr Destler." Her speaking voice seemed slightly higher with that accent, or was it something else? The mask slipped as he subtly – though unmistakeably ran his thumb across the ring when lowering her hand and he felt her tremble.

"Nelly!"

The voice came from somewhere up in the sound booth, and she immediately turned to its source, a look of extreme consternation on her features. A light flashed, and she tore her hand away and ran to the back of the stage. Turning, she tapped her foot and the floor below her disappeared; but not before she locked eyes with him once more, a look of sorrow crossing her features. As she sank into the blackness, it was all he could do not to chase after her, but of course that would have been the actions of the Ghost, or at least, someone who knew her – not Erik Destler. Resisting the urge to sigh – or shout and curse as he greatly desired – he simply turned to speak with Arneau.

This ghost business was definitely proving to be rather tiresome.

* * *

**AN: PLEASE don't hurt me. Come on, that ending's got to be slightly better than the last one. At least they've met, spoken, touched, had an intro of some kind . . . I'm not doing myself any favours here am I? No. Thought not. Well, thanks again from your incorrigible Nedjmet.**


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Apologies for the ridiculously long delay. Sadly, life and work got in the way and I lost the will to write (sobs!). However, things have settled down, I'm getting a new job soon that won't leave me so tired and should (fingers crossed as many times as is humanly possible) give me longer evenings which means more time to write. Plus, I gave myself a mental kick up the backside (before anyone took it upon themselves to do it physically) and I think I might be back on the right track. So please forgive your grovelling authoress before her knees wear out. I was hoping to post this over the weekend, but owing to grievous amounts of technical stupidity on my part, it took longer than anticipated to get my beta's approval. Many thanks go to phantom-jedi1 for ironing out the creases.**

**And on that note, thanks to pictureperfxi0n, jtbwriter, Lothiel, Timeflies, Lili Sinclair, KyrieofAccender, phantom-jedi1, OperaLover, terbear, Melodic Rose, UinenDolothen, Pony210, -19MikaelA87-, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ, mildetryth, smartblondee, Nyasia A. Maire, Norma Leann Zane, montaquecat, Mystery Guest, LoveofOpera, sapgureangelcutie and chasa for their latest reviews.**

**An extra special thank you to montaquecat, TalithaJ and slowlygently for checking up on me. That was really sweet of you and I'm only sorry that I kept you hanging long enough to merit such concern.**

**Once more: gratuitous apologies. With any luck my guilt trip can ease up and I can get back to writing. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission. 

Chapter 5

Some things never changed.

Long before she saw the manager's office, she heard the voices of its occupants. At least there was only one voice that sounded exasperated, though she couldn't hear the other that she was hoping for. From the sounds of things, the format of the concert was being discussed – which she was surprised about, given that it was barely a week away. Her mother had always said that you heard the managers before you saw them, and the memory coupled with the proof made her smile.

At least until another memory made her frown.

Danny had said to go to the manager's office once she'd finished, meaning he'd probably known about the warning – meaning it probably hadn't even been necessary. If that was the case . . . like her mother, she didn't need the hair to have the temper of a redhead.

Pressing her ear to the wall in front of her, she listened, trying to picture where the voices' owners were within the room. Biding her time, she waited for the opportune moment and quickly slipped silently inside. Thankfully, none saw her until after she'd closed the panel. Unbelievably, the first pair of eyes to find hers were the ones she had convinced herself were not to be found. Her Angel sat staring at her slightly open-mouthed in silent astonishment. Tilting her head a little and raising her finger to her lips – unwittingly in the exact same manner as he had gestured to her during _Don Juan_ – he nodded almost imperceptibly at her request and schooled his features once more.

Standing motionless and silent, she listened to the conversation, resisting the urge to grin – though there was no quelling the sparkle in her eyes – when Danny finally caught sight of her. The other two men in the room remained with their backs to her, seeing as she was standing behind the manager's desk; something that had always driven said manager crazy whenever her mother did it. At present they seemed to be debating a change in the running order or something along those lines, and the loudest (and most exasperated) voice appeared to belong to the only man she didn't recognise in the slightest.

"Well, that's all well and good, but we don't know a thing about her or where she is!" When she saw Arneau cover his mouth in a half-strangled cough, she realised who they were talking about.

"Paul, if you'd give us a chance to explain, I'm sure you'd be amenable to the idea." Daniel attempted.

"Explain? Fine, explain who this mystery woman is, and more importantly, where she is."

"Ach, an' I was waiting for you to shift."

* * *

It had taken quite a few minutes before anything the conductor was saying registered. His rose had given an absolutely breathtaking performance. Now he truly understood why she'd said she 'couldn't help but know' that piece. Katie had turned her back on the stage, but she couldn't have turned her back on Music, and she had given it to her daughter. Were it not for the ring on her finger and the wonderful voice pouring from her lips, he would have sworn it were Katie herself on that stage. Everything about what she did was exactly as her mother had done, even when she had looked at the choir flanking her and chewed on her lip slightly. 

And the brief conversation she had shared with Arneau . . . it was little moments like that that had been the reason why he'd dared to love Katie O'Neill – though it had taken him years to admit it even to himself. To have her daughter, his rose embodying that . . . magic . . . was breathtaking.

She had learnt to hide her feelings well, but though her face had remained blank, he had not missed the tremor in her hand as he'd taken it. Nor had he missed the look in her eyes when he'd brushed his fingers across the ring . . . _his_ ring. When she had run, he had been all but ready to give up, until she'd met his eyes with regret. Regret at leaving him again? Could he dare hope for that? And yet, what was there in contradiction? True, she had run from him twice, but apparently it had been because of the warnings of old. And she still wore his ring.

Not for the first time that day, he began to wonder if he had been as infuriating to her when he'd been the Ghost.

It was a novel experience, being seated in the manager's office as a guest – and a welcome one at that. The vantage point didn't change the lunacy by which they appeared to operate, merely offered a different perspective. Being so directly involved in the conversation, though – he couldn't quite decide if the amusement the situation offered was heightened or not.

Paul Horton – the present manager – had begun the conversation by demanding to know who had been on his stage and why he hadn't been kept informed. Many protestations and accessions later, and they still hadn't managed to get to the point. Arneau had tried to explain that he had brought her in to help with the concert, but hadn't managed to get much further before being censured for going behind Horton's back.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, he had lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hand to try and stem off the inevitable headache. Would that there were a cure as reliable for solving such problems as the mangers were at causing them! When he'd looked up again, it was only to have his wish granted. There she was behind Horton's desk, quietly surveying the scene. How had she gotten in unnoticed _even by him_?! It was all he could do not to cry out in frustration at the irony when she silently bid him be quiet, just as he had done to her those years ago. Yes, she was her mother's daughter; but she was truly his student. When she'd first entered his world, he had often thought that she would be a suitable candidate for taking up his mantle, should he ever 'retire' from the Ghost business.

There were times when he hated being right.

But, for the sake of satisfying his curiosity and seeing what she would do – and because he could still deny her nothing – he blanked his face, noticing the mirth on Arneau's when Horton pronounced his ignorance of her presence.

"Ach, an' I was waiting for you to shift."

There was the Irish brogue again. It was astonishing how much she sounded like Katie with that accent. Horton whirled around, his face flushed when he heard the audacious and unexpected reply. Hearing him splutter in an attempt at articulation, he could imagine the man's mouth working in a fashion not dissimilar to that of a goldfish, and didn't bother to hide his smirk.

In the true manner of an O'Neill, she rolled her eyes, put her hands on the man's shoulders and guided him into his chair whilst continuing:

"The polite thing to do would be to step aside, invite me in and offer me a seat. What's the matter with you, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Now, now, Miss O'Neill, have a little pity. He still isn't quite used to some things around here." She whipped around on hearing that voice, her mouth dropping open a little in surprise. As recognition dawned, he realised he'd actually forgotten how adorable she could be.

"What do you think you're doing here?" She upbraided the elder gentleman who had hitherto remained silent. Hand on hip, head cocked slightly to the side, she went on.

"All that time you spent harping on about early retirement and you're still here? Claude, man, you'd better have a decent reason or I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

'Claude' smiled a little, stepped towards her and took both of her hands in his, his thumb rubbing against her ring slightly – which made one of the seated occupants of the room sit up a bit straighter – before studying her face. At length, he answered almost ruefully:

"For your information, I did retire, but the wind whispered the promise of an O'Neill and I was lured back."

"Well now, how can any lass resist charm like that?" She replied gently.

"Welcome home, Nelly," came the equally soft answer. Groaning, she pulled him into a tight embrace before standing near his side and surveying the rest of the room with a smile.

"'Claude'?" asked Horton with a raised eyebrow, having finally regained some semblance of his composure.

"A nickname that Miss O'Neill came up with and insisted on addressing me by, even if she was the only one." The elder gentleman answered on a sigh.

"And with a name like Debussy, what else were you expecting?"

"Oh, perhaps the respect due to my station."

"And you think being likened to one of the great composers is a sign of anything less?" The redhead answered sardonically.

Incredible. Every other word and he had to tell himself that it wasn't Katie. Of course, for the other half he realised that there could be no mistaking _that _voice. There was none other that he had crafted, trained, sculpted . . . worshipped quite the same way; and there was no denying its owner.

When Horton let out another demand to be told what was going on, the two remaining gentlemen resumed their seats – leaving none for her. Not looking in the least bit perturbed, she walked straight towards his chair and finally addressed him.

"Mind if I join you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two elder gentlemen exchange amused, if slightly puzzled glances as he stared up at his rose, mouth somewhat agape. Uncharacteristically flustered, he all but jumped out of his seat and was about to offer it to her when she put her hands on his shoulders and gently forced him back down.

"Now, now, Mr. Destler, guests always get a seat." Placing herself gently on the arm of the chair, she leaned back into it a little, making him part of her cushion. "If you don't mind, there's never been enough chairs in here anyhow, and I figured this way it'd be harder for me to disappear on you again."

He heard the amusement in her voice, but felt her slight tremble and couldn't help but think he wasn't the only one to feel the spark as her skin brushed against his.

"Quite alright, Miss O'Neill."

"Well now that everyone's settled, would someone _please_ explain what is going on?" Were Horton's face any redder; it would have rivalled a tomato. Fortunately he was more slender than rotund – otherwise the picture would have been ridiculous.

"Danny, where did you boys get up to?"

"I think if you were to start at the beginning of your tale, my dear, that should bring us up to speed."

"Righty hotey. Basically, Danny boy phoned someone who used to work here, seeing if they knew how to get in touch with me. She gave him my number and he gave me a ring, told me a bit about the concert and wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help. So here I am. Although, truth be told, I'm still not entirely sure what he had in mind when he asked for help."

At some point during her brief outline, she had met the eyes of all in the room, and now the focus of all turned to Arneau – with the exception of a cushion.

"Neither was I until you arrived." Daniel turned to Horton expectantly.

"Miss O'Neill, who are you really?" Horton asked, receiving only a bemused and affronted stare in reply. "I mean, is your name really O'Neill or are you just an admittedly excellent look-alike?"

"Mr. Horton, I am an O'Neill and this is the last place you ever want to be suggesting otherwise," she answered in a low voice that produced shivers in more than one spine, "and furthermore, I'm no impersonator. Katie'd have my head if I so much as thought about it!"

"Then why was Daniel looking for you if you're not an impersonator or . . ." He sat back in shock as the reality suddenly clicked. "You're related to her." She merely sat there. "Well, how? Do you have any idea the publicity this could-"

"Stop right there." The voice was quiet but the steel was unmistakeable. The man seated at her side looked up at her in awe, wondering when she had learned to be so . . . so like him.

"My private life is just that. The same applies for Katie and always has. If you've a mind to change that then this conversation is going to end very soon indeed."

Feeling oddly subdued, Horton looked to his predecessor in question, who in turn looked at the redhead, considering her once more before nodding.

"Perfect." Returning his eyes to the younger manager, he went on: "She's perfect. There's only three ways I can spot any difference, and two of those are so minute, I doubt anyone in the audience would notice."

"Audience? Claude, what are you on about?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter, which somewhat irked her cushion.

"And the third?" Horton enquired, ignoring the interruption.

"My memory may have faded, and I hope Katie will forgive me, but I do believe this young lady has an even better voice on her." Approaching the desk, the two managers began to confer, Arneau joining in. Blocking them out slightly, Christine leant back again and turned to the dark figure who had thus far remained silent.

"Do you know what they're on about?"

Seeing the concerned look on her face, he gave into temptation and lightly placed his arm about her waist – after all, she could slip off the arm at any moment – and quietly replied:

"Nothing to worry about, I can assure you."

"Conspiring managers, babbling about who knows what, and it's nothing to worry about? Right." She turned her head as she disbelievingly humoured him. He couldn't help but smile, which she returned when she saw him out of the corner of her eye.

"Miss O'Neill – I'm sorry, do you have a first name?"

"Miss O'Neill will do fine. You only get my first name on a better acquaintance." she elaborated when she saw Horton beginning to protest – although Claude's smile didn't go unnoticed.

"Very well, Miss O'Neill. As I am told you have been made aware, whilst he wasn't the original inspiration behind the concert, we were prepared to hand the show over predominantly to Mr Destler's good judgement. However, with his consent and based on the performance you've given – both on and off stage – The Clover would like to offer you a role in Saturday's performance."

Silence.

"What?" The word was barely audible, and Erik tightened his hold on her when he saw how pale she had become.

"I realise it's short notice, but the concert is in memory of Katie O'Neill, and you could bring her back to the stage."

"My dear, think of it: she hasn't been forgotten, but you can remind people of why that is, and teach anyone else as well." Danny encouraged.

Christine raised a hand to her cheek, unable to grasp the situation.

"Presumably you have some stage experience, Miss O'Neill?" Claude asked.

"Aye, a bit."

"A bit?" Horton repeated doubtfully. Of course, this reawakened the O'Neill spirit within.

"Aye, a bit. It's a wee bit difficult to attend the Ravelle and not get any stage experience."

"You're at . . . the Ravelle? _The_ Ravelle Institute of Music?" the manager replied, his disbelief of a more positive note.

"No. I'm in my last year at the Royal College of Music. I graduated as valedictorian at the Ravelle before I started my degree."

"But . . . but surely if you achieved such high honours at the Ravelle, you needn't have bothered with a degree? The stage would have been open to you."

"Let's just say that I had my reasons. Now, is that enough experience for you?"

"Perhaps." All eyes turned to Arneau in shock. "How well do you know the work of Katie O'Neill?" he asked; something of a twinkle in his eye.

Meeting his gaze evenly, unwaveringly, Christine answered with conviction.

"I know every song she ever performed on that stage. Starting from her second Christmas season here, I know every step she took, every move she made and every costume she wore in performance – most of which I've got and I think I could dig up a fair few cue sheets for the technicians if you really wanted me to."

"I don't doubt it, my dear. Do you think you can bring her back to the stage?" Claude asked, silently pulling rank over the others.

"I'll no' be impersonatin' her." The brogue thickened with the depth of feeling she conveyed.

"Of course not. But can you bring her back? Can you as an O'Neill reclaim The Clover?" The challenge was not one to be refused, not that she had any intention of turning them down, but she was no fool.

"What are you asking?"

"Mr. Destler has agreed to provide either two acts, or one long one. We'd like you to do the final act, although the exact format has yet to be decided." Horton replied.

"Golden oldies and classic O'Neill?" she asked Arneau, who nodded in confirmation.

"And there is the matter of a finale, which we have agreed should be yours, provided you feel up to the task." The manager concluded.

"Finale?" Again, her face paled. Again the hold on her tightened in support. Rising, she brushed her fingers against the arm around her in gratitude before pacing. Turning back to the man whose hold she had left, she asked:

"Are you sure? I mean, you're the main performer, surely-"

"You're the O'Neill."

She ran a hand through her hair in frustration, worry, nervousness – she wasn't really sure which. Turning to Arneau, she exchanged knowing looks with him.

"There's only one thing to do."

"I know how difficult it will be for you, lass, but-"

"No. You don't. You don't know." she cut him off.

Seeing the tension that had suddenly appeared, Paul tried to reclaim some sort of hold over the conversation.

"Miss O'Neill, what exactly did you have in mind? For the finale?" Slowly, the stricken look slipped from her features, though the earlier mirth failed to return. Facing him when she was back in control, she answered:

"That depends. If I do this, were you wanting to give me the finale?"

Sensing there was once again a deeper meaning to her question, he returned cautiously:

"Provided you have something worthy of the occasion, the finale is yours."

"Right then." Turning to Arneau, "I reckon we'd better get started, Danny boy."

As she began to uncharacteristically head towards the door, Horton called out again.

"Then you'll do it?"

"Mr. Horton, no one with the slightest bit of sense _would_ turn down The Clover. And no O'Neill _could_. I'd be lying if I were to say I hadnae dreamt about it my whole life. Did you not wonder why you were the only one still asking?"

Refusing to give into the folly that answer would lay at his door, he returned to his previous enquiry.

"And the finale?" She answered the challenge evenly, daring him to fight back.

"An old Clover tradition: once the finale's been given, that's it. You leave it to me."

Horton came out from behind his desk and immediately appealed to Arneau and Debussy, demanding to know where such unheard of audacity had come from and why they appeared to be supporting it. Having seen her first attempt at an exit, the two gentlemen rose and joined their colleague, simultaneously blocking his view of anything else. That left the only other witness to the conversation thus far to be privy to its conclusion. He watched as she quirked an eyebrow at him, whether in query, anticipation or concern, he could only guess at. Just as he could only watch as she silently disappeared from view, though this time he saw the path she took. Resisting the urge to follow – and satisfy a few other urges besides – he merely gave into a small sigh that didn't begin to express all he felt in that moment, and settled back to watch the farce play itself out.

Though based on his previous experience with managers, it was anybody's guess how many hours that would take.

* * *

**AN: Right, based on reviews for the last one, I thought I'd better throw this in before missiles start being hurled. I know there was only a small improvement in the EC interaction. There will be a LOT more in the next chapter i.e. actual prolonged conversation. So please don't hate me as much. I'll try not to keep you waiting so long. Thanks again. N.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: First of all, apologies to my reviewers if my replies got you all excited. I did have a chapter ready, but it was lacking the seal of approval of my beta, so I had to wait a wee while before I could post.**

**Second of all, apologies to my beta, I did say I'd post this weekend so I hope the second half passed muster.**

**Third of all, for everyone else, that last point will probably have made you realise that the second bit of this chapter (everything after the first break) remains un-beta-ed (for want of a real word), so any errors, discrepancies etc: on my head be it.**

**Thanks to Timeflies, jtbwriter, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ, Opera Lover, Nyasia A. Maire, terbear, Lili Sinclair, montaquecat, slowlygently, KyrieofAccender, chasa, phantom-jedi1, Lovegoddess567 and mildetryth for their latest reviews. And an extra special thank you to my wonderful beta for putting up with all my nagging and still finding time to edit in spite of what sounded like a crazily rotten week of exams. Hope you don't mind me putting this in, but I wanted my readers to know that the slight delay was all in a worthy cause and that your work on this story is greatly appreciated. Also hope the math went OK (if that's possible). BTW, did you all know my beta is a genius?**

**And without any further ado whatsoever (except to say that I am fulfilling my previous promise in this chapter), thanks again and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission. 

Chapter 6

It was definitely the hair.

Her mother had always said that the hair had made her into the star she was. Without the red wig, she never would have dared get on the stage to perform, and without the wig she certainly never would have talked back to everyone the way she did. It had completely transformed her from a mouse into a feisty tigress that no one messed with – in spite of the many running jokes and banter that were sent back and forth.

Setting foot into that office had felt like walking into the lion's den, and without the O'Neill persona, she knew it would have been otherwise impossible. Trying to recall all the stories that she'd been told over the years, attempting to match faces to names – faces that had aged by two decades – and sorting through all the little quirks and mannerisms her mother had used had had her feeling as though she were drowning on the way down to The Clover. Yet the moment she had put the wig on, the instant she had slipped into the Irish brogue, the O'Neill within had surfaced and it all felt so natural.

Until she'd set eyes on him.

Three years had done nothing to detract from the darkness that rendered him so captivating, and merely looking at him she had once more fallen under the spell of her Angel. How was it possible? What magic had brought him here of all places and without his mask? Vaguely she recalled that he had once spoken of his longings to give his music to the world and she had felt a tremendous privilege at realising the role she had all too briefly fulfilled for him in that respect. Yet now, here he was on a stage. Unmasked. Unafraid. And undeniably perfect.

It was definitely the hair.

If she hadn't had the shield it provided, she would have failed dismally at hiding all that seeing him again had done. There was no way she ever could have anticipated finding him here, nor in such a role. Seeing him on stage, hearing his voice . . . _that_ voice had stolen her breath away and replaced it with all the dreams and memories she had sought so hard to quell – if only for the sake of her sanity. Having to run from him – twice – had brought the most recent of those memories to the surface of her mind and it had refused to sink back down into the miry depths without dragging her with it.

Three years since _Don Juan_ _Triumphant_. Three years since he had offered her an ultimatum. Three years since she had accepted him.

Three years since he had turned her away.

And in all those three years, not a night had gone by without his grief-stricken face tormenting her in her dreams, nor those words pleading with her and breaking both of them anew.

_Christine, I love you . . ._

Her days were not much better, though at least she had the myriad of necessary jobs life threw across her path each day to act as some form of relief. Once more she had taken up her mask of old and completely hidden her pain from all except those who knew her. She had thought her degree would help, but it only made the absence of her dark mentor all the more prominent; all the more poignant. Thrust headlong into a new world of music without friends or guide, she had none who could teach her quite as he had, none who could simply be there or say exactly what she needed to hear as he had. Whilst she had excelled, there was always an underlying disappointment from some of her professors that she was not quite living up to all they had expected. The same disappointment lay within herself because she was failing her Angel in the last thing he had asked of her: to sing.

Because he wasn't there.

Her mother had always said that you couldn't sing – _really_ sing, make true Music – unless you put everything that you were into it. She'd also said that it wasn't truly complete until you'd given it to someone – that that's what made Music really come alive. Christine couldn't pour all that she was into Music, for the one person she longed to give it to held in his grasp the one thing she needed to bring it to life: her heart. The first time she had sung for her Angel and he alone, she had finally understood what her mother had been trying to tell her. Granted, she had sung for her father and her adoptive family before, but that was nothing to the joy of surrendering your music – surrendering your all – the way she had to her Angel. That was the joy he had wanted her to go on experiencing.

But without him, no matter how well trained her voice, no matter how skilled a musician she was, she couldn't sing. And that had only served to compound the torment. Seeing him again in the place where she had thought she might recover something of her voice had only served to bring it all back to light.

And she was once more on the brink of drowning in that darkness.

Ensconced in the bowels of the theatre that her mother had so often called home, she indeed felt that same familiar comfort, though she had never set foot here before. The three small rooms she had taken over at the back of the theatre were extremely out of the way, and had served her mother well as a home when she had first arrived, and indeed for some time even after she had been 'discovered'. And now her daughter occupied them.

And they were silent.

These were the rooms Katie had retreated to when it had all been too much. Surely she hadn't been referring to Music when she'd said that? Why did the silence oppress her now? In order that the pain be complete.

Resolving not to lose herself to the silence and the shadows, she switched on the old radio, somewhat surprised that it was still working. When she finally managed to pick up a station – reception being questionable with no real access to the outside from that room – she collapsed to her knees and curled up into a ball.

There was no escaping it. The Opera Ghost was determined to haunt her.

* * *

Either his memories had not served him well, or he had been more ignorant of Music as a youth. Whichever it was, the so called 'musicians' of The Clover had done nothing but fall short of his expectations. The music he had selected for the concert, whilst new, was by no means as demanding as that which he had asked others to perform. Not to mention they'd had it for weeks now, assuring him that they were up to speed and he would be surprised by their progress when he arrived. 

They were right. Just not quite in the way they'd intended.

How they thought they could ever hope to pay a fitting tribute to Katie with their currently mangled efforts he shuddered to think. Having spent all morning listening to them butchering not only his music but Katie's memory as well, he cast aside his resolve and finally gave vent to the frustration he'd felt since setting foot outside his door yesterday.

"_ENOUGH!!_"

The practice room fell silent. Being musicians themselves and having worked at The Clover for long enough, they were used to visiting artists being temperamental. The question was: how were they to deal with this one? The answer became clear soon enough when he finally raised eyes to them that surely would have put Vesuvius to shame and spoke with a voice that had several looking out the window to see if the thunderclouds were without or within.

"Get out."

They gathered up their instruments and music as quickly as they could and left as though the wrath of the O'Neill was at their heels. Well, one out of two wasn't bad.

When he heard the hesitant knock on the door, he didn't bother trying to suppress the groan, experience having taught that it usually worked for getting some peace and quiet – or at the very least, some quiet.

"If noo's a bad time, I can come back later." His head whipped round at the first sound of _that _voice. Seeing the red hair framing her face, he was overcome and his anger seeped away, only to be replaced by an urgency when she mentioned coming back later, which implied her leaving. Rushing forwards, he barely managed to stop himself a few feet away.

"No. I mean . . ." seeing that he had startled her, he searched for the right words to reach the woman before him, "You came."

Shock flashed across her face, but she almost instantly recomposed herself.

"Sorry?"

"Forgive me for startling you," he moved closer and gently guided her far enough into the room that he could shut the door, "just, please . . . don't disappear." Lowering her head, she smiled sheepishly.

"Aye, sorry aboot that."

"If I may, why did you?" Looking back up, she looked at him as though trying to gauge something – though he wasn't entirely sure what.

"Well, seein' as you're goin' tah be here fur a while, I suppose ah'd better let ya in on it:" turning and moving further into the room, she paced a little as she answered, "it's an old tradition of The Clover, well, of the O'Neills. Katie didnae like to be seen by outsiders if she wasn't supposed to. I mean, if anyone was backstage who wasn't supposed to be, most o' the time, somebody could call out and warn her.

"I reckon the first time I disappeared on you, it was 'cause Danny and the managers were comin' and he wasnae quite ready for them to see me."

"And the second time?" She stopped moving.

"I don't know." Had the brogue slipped just a little then? "I reckon it was just Danny trying to put on the whole show as it were. Pulling out all the stops to convince them an O'Neill really was back on stage."

He moved to stand in front of her, noting that she did not back away, though that had clearly crossed her mind.

"And yesterday, in Horton's office?" She was trembling. She had yet to say that she'd run from him, but then again, she'd yet to say she hadn't. Was it fear after all that caused her to behave so nervously?

Cocking her to one side, she put her hand on her hip and with a cheeky one-sided smirk, asked:

"Sorry, did they actually manage to say somethin' else worth hearin'?"

Smiling down at the adorable picture she presented, he couldn't help noticing how appealing her mouth looked like that. Summoning all his willpower – which diminished greatly with each second that she smiled up at him that way – he pushed aside the memories of exactly what that mouth felt like and instead continued:

"Let me guess, another O'Neill tradition."

"No. Just common sense. It's a perk of an O'Neill tradition that I can get away with it."

"Ah." Moving away before he forgot why exactly he was resisting the temptation before him – or before he remembered that he didn't actually know in the first place – he absent-mindedly tided up some of the mess that his 'colleagues' had left behind in their haste to exit.

"It wasnae because o' you," he looked at her over his shoulder, "if that's what you were thinkin'."

"Why would I think that?" He was definitely out of practice because there was no mistaking the fact that his voice had thickened a little. Mercifully, she kept her tone light.

"Well, it's just that you counted three times I ran out on ya, so I didnae want you thinkin' that."

He looked at his rose, wondering if perhaps he dared to still call her that. At the very least, he dared to wonder if there was some significance to the fact that she was now a red rose.

"Thank you. Now, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?"

* * *

She'd given up. 

After seeing him, listening to him on the radio and having him haunt her dreams all the more vividly, she knew there was no way she could go through with it. She couldn't spend the week being around him, behaving like someone else, pretending that all that had ever passed between them didn't exist without losing whatever scrap of sanity she had left. Not to mention the undeniable fact that if he was going to perform on that stage, there'd be no room for her as far as any audience was concerned.

Having spent the morning plucking up the courage to face him – truly face him – she was caught off guard when she heard him all but screaming at the orchestra members who soon came running out of the room Danny had said he'd asked for.

When she'd walked in and saw him standing, leaning on the windowsill, she'd almost giggled. Some things never changed. Even in The Clover, even without his mask and phantom persona, he still managed to darken and chill everything around him when he was angry. She'd been somewhat surprised at his reaction to her knock, given that he had rarely succumbed to his emotions so demonstratively in the past. At least with anyone else around as far as she knew.

How was it possible that she still had that same effect on him after all this time? He'd moved on, become successful, had finally had his wish granted to serve Music and give it to the world. And still she could calm him with a word.

How was it possible that he still had that same effect on her after all this time? After all the dreams, all the tears and pain, he still made her long for him simply by being near.

Though he tried to brush off the idea that she'd run from him; she knew he had thought that, just as she'd feared. And now having denied that, she had to effectively tell him she wanted to leave. Except that she didn't. Her Angel was here and the last thing she wanted to do was to run away. The fact that he hadn't cast her aside from the first meant that either he didn't recognise her, or that at the very least, he didn't object to her presence. If he hadn't recognised her, then why had he gone looking for her, why had he so deliberately drawn attention to her ring and why did she still have that calming effect on him as of old? Plus, if he objected to her presence, then surely he wouldn't have been so insistent with both his behaviour and words that she not disappear again.

There was only one thing to do: seek guidance from her Angel. Turning to the man who rested against a table, she found it curious that she was neither looking up nor down to see him.

"Well, I was listenin' to the radio last night, only for an hour and a half, or thereabouts. Now, I didnae change stations, but I still managed to hear your music six times and they weren't doin' a feature on you or anythin'. I was wonderin': rumour has it this is your first concert, and I was just wonderin' if you know how well were you plannin' on performing, based on what I heard last night, and the wee bit I caught of your rehearsal?"

"I'm not sure I understand." She moved closer as though that would make her communication clearer.

"I caught your rehearsal." A nod. "And I heard you on the radio."

"And?"

"And how will either of those compare with whatever it is you're plannin' to do on stage?"

"I hope they will pale in comparison. The thrill of performing is one of the ultimate catalysts for any musician." She studied him carefully, knowing all too well what he was talking about, and knowing all too well just how good he was on stage.

"Right." Turning away, she resumed her pacing, though this time her nerves were far more apparent as she repeatedly gave in to the now old habit of fiddling with her ring. In trying to find out what was on her mind, he almost called out 'Christine', but stopped himself whilst she was still facing away from him.

"Miss O'Neill." Nothing. Just pacing. Relieved to have an excuse, he rose, stood in her path and took hold of her shoulders just before she tripped over her feet trying to avoid walking into him. "What is it?" Raising her face, his mouth opened slightly at the worry written there.

"A lot o' folk'll be comin' for Katie, but most'll be comin' to see you. Well, to hear you, but to see you as well. Once they've heard you though, even if they came for Katie, once they've heard you, I'll be hard pressed to convince 'em that I belong on that stage for an act, let alone that I deserve a finale."

She spoke so quickly and the brogue had thickened so much that even he had a difficult time making sense of it all. But one thought emerged clearly enough: she didn't want to do the concert. At least not the way it stood. Refusing to release her lest she disappear again – though he was convinced that wasn't possible in this room – he urgently enquired:

"Then what would you have me do? Change the order? I won't take the finale from you, not even for – especially not for Katie."

She looked hard at him, evidently surprised.

"What do you mean, 'especially not for Katie'."

"This concert is in memory of her. If you think that anyone else concluding it would be honouring her, then you are sorely mistaken. Now, would you have me change the order? What can I do to put your mind at ease?"

Hearing what was in his voice, she strove to return the favour he was offering. Calming herself, she began anew.

"It's just that, based on what I heard, even if I can revive the old O'Neill magic, there's no way I'd be good enough to follow you. Truth be told, I was half-tempted to ask you to play badly just for one song or something." Seeing the shock and disgust that he evinced, she quickly raised her hands to calm him – though instead of landing on his arms, they ended up on his chest for some reason.

"Don't you be frettin' none. I'd ne'er ask anyone to do that – even if in some cases it'd be an improvement." she offered with a small smile, which thankfully he returned. "Based on what I heard though, I just don't see how this is goin' to work."

Finally realising what it was she wanted from him, he let his hands slide down to her arms – barely noticing that they were practically in an embrace – as he thought of how to provide it. He quirked an eyebrow as an idea struck him.

"Do you truly wish to do this? To be a part of this concert? To honour the memory of Katie O'Neill?" Her face hardened and she all but glared at him.

"You're seriously askin' an O'Neill that?" Smiling, he returned:

"I'll take that as a yes. Go back to your dressing room, or somewhere you can relax. Give me an hour then come to the left wing."

Cocking her head, she smiled that same way again, though without hand on hip this time as they were both resting elsewhere already.

"What're you up to?"

"Do you doubt me?" The question of old caught them both by surprise, though unwilling to answer and face what would inevitably follow the recognition of those times, Christine merely lowered her eyes and shook her head.

"Then go." Silently she obeyed, eyes still fixed on the floor. "Miss O'Neill?" Stopping, she looked over her shoulder, much as he was wont to do. "I almost forgot: you'll need to warm up."

Her mouth opened slightly and she finally met his eyes with her own widened ones. He merely smiled and turned back to his tidying up. After a few moments, realising that he hadn't heard the door open or close, he turned only to find that he was alone in the room. Moving quickly to the portal, he opened it and looked out into the corridor, but there was neither sight nor sound of anyone.

Had he checked the room more carefully, he would have realised exactly where to find the redhead in black who watched his back whilst barely concealing giggles so strong that they were starting to become painful.

* * *

**AN: In a no doubt vain attempt to convince you that I'm not completely evil: slight cliffy there but the next chapter has been written and is merely awaiting a certain seal of approval. This time though, I will do my beta the courtesy of waiting for it. Hope you don't mind, but I do feel so much better about this knowing all the creases have been ironed out. Thanks again. N.**


	8. Chapter 7

**AN: OK, I did say I'd wait for my beta, but owing to gratuitous technical blunders, this chapter remains un-beta-ed. Any mistakes: blame Hotmail. Sorry phantom-jedi1, but I didn't want to wait longer for posting. Hope it's OK.**

**Thanks to sapphireangelcutie, Passed Over (welcome back), CarolROI, chrys.cadis.chasa., Nyasia A. Maire, KyrieofAccender, phantom-jedi1, terbear, jtbwriter, UinenDolothen, Lady Winifred, Tiggy of the Wind, Timeflies, mildetruth, Lili Sinclair, montaquecat, smartblondee, OperaLover, laal ratty and slowlygently for their latest reviews. Oh, and for those wanting the old Christine to surface past the O'Neill facade, hopefully this will tide you over. **

**Congratulations to KyrieofAccender, Lady Winifred, mildetryth and OperaLover for guessing what happens next correctly. Thanks again, everyone and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission. 

Chapter 7

Carefully she made her way to the left wing just off stage, still somewhat dazed after being held by her Angel again, touching him again. She knew she was behaving like a love-struck teenager, but that in essence was the position she found herself in. Granted she was no longer a teenager, but that was a fairly recent development. As for love-struck: with the sense that phrase had coined, to call it an understatement would be like saying that Mozart could play the violin.

Though she remained doubtful that even her Angel could produce a miracle that would make her worthy of that stage in the eyes of an audience – having lost none of his power – she fervently hoped that he would prove her wrong. From where she stood, she remained invisible to anyone in the auditorium; and that would also be the case for about half the stage, were it not for the fact that a curtain was down near the back – in a similar fashion to the one that had separated her from the choir at the Ravelle Christmas Concert.

The sudden memories of that night meant that she almost jumped out of her skin as a very familiar presence came to stand behind her, so close that she could feel the heat from his body. Certain that he could hear her heartbeat she stopped breathing in an effort to calm as she felt his breath next to her ear.

"Are you ready?"

She returned his whisper with one of her own, though not even the O'Neill shield was strong enough to hide the tremor.

"Ready for what?"

She felt, rather than heard, the low rumble in his throat that could only have been a soft growl. Whether he was trying to be intimidating, angry or something else all together that she didn't dare contemplate at that point in time, she didn't know. All she knew was that whatever it was, it worked. As he wrapped one arm around her waist, his left hand on her shoulder, she was quivering like a violin string under the bow of a master. He guided her forward to the middle of the stage behind the curtain, turning her so that she was facing it. Raising his hand from her shoulder to her throat in order that his meaning be made clear, he placed his head next to hers and asked once again:

"Are you ready?"

Understanding came. Closing her eyes, she swallowed her nerves, her doubts and her worry as she took up her mother's mantle.

"Aye." Though a whisper again, this time it came clear and strong.

She felt his nod. And then his absence. Having felt his every move from such an intoxicating closeness, she almost shivered at the sudden cold, yet resisted the urge to look around, knowing that to do so would belie the answer she had just given.

"Lá na mara"

The sound of the choir punctuated by a drum, each coming from the other side of the curtain made her start.

"Lá na mar nó rabharta"

At the next drum beat, she put hand on hip and looked back at the darker figure now standing in the right wing, her smile growing.

"Guth na dtonnta a leanadh Guth na dtonnta a leanfad, ó" As the gentle accompaniment began at the end of the two phrases, she allowed herself – although mostly her hips – to sway in time with it.

The choir continued and the curtain rose, revealing her to them as she continued seemingly unaware, though she knew full well they were scattered in a rough semi-circle around the stage.

"Lá na mara nó lom trá Lá na mara nó rabharta

"Lá an ghainimh Lom trá Lá an ghainimh"

As their voices faded and the music settled down, without needing any prompt or cue outside of the music itself, she began; her voice ringing out clear and pure across the auditorium with a hint of that Irish accent that the O'Neills were so well-loved for, her hand gracefully and perfectly giving echo to the words that she sang.

"Can you feel the river run Waves are dancing to the sun Take the tide and face the sea And find a way to follow me"

The accompaniment grew slightly more prominent, and so she allowed it to carry her softly forward along the path flanked by the others on stage.

"Leave the field and leave the fire And find the flame of your desire Set your heart on this far shore And sing your dream to me once more."

Veering off towards the right, she smiled as several of the choir joined in, moving along the line they created, welcoming them into the music.

"'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear 'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear Suan nó séan ni bhfuair mé féin Ó chauigh I gcéin mo ghile mear"

On she went, to the other side of the stage, emphasising the love she sang of with her hands before being joined in the last line and refrain by a small number of the choir on that side.

"Now the time has come to leave Keep the flame and still believe Know that love will shine through darkness One bright star to light the wave"

"'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear 'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear Suan nó séan ni bhfuair mé féin Ó chauigh I gcéin mo ghile mear"

Here, the rhythmic accompaniment grew more prominent, and as the choir joined it with the bridge, the O'Neill allowed herself to be carried with the music, moving hypnotically to the point of being provocative.

"Amhrán na farraige, ór ar na seolta Amhrán na farraige, ag seoladh na bhfonta Ag seinm na farraige Seinn . . ."

Empowered by the vitality of the music, her voice became stronger and as the smaller chorus accompanied her halfway through, her voice rose in an unexpected but welcome harmony.

"Lift your voice and raise the sail Know that love will never fail Know that I will sing to you Each night as I dream of you"

They began the chorus anew, the bridge acting as the undercurrent of the sea they kept singing of, the O'Neill's movements echoing the music, moving ever forward.

"'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear 'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear Suan nó séan ni bhfuair mé féin Ó chauigh I gcéin mo ghile mear"

The drums halted her movements. Looking around as she came out from Music's spell owing to the harsh interruption, Christine was astonished to see the kit that had been set up where she had been standing only minutes before. Hand on hip in the O'Neill fashion, she looked down to Danny who was stood before his lectern in the pit, leaning back of all things and with a smile on his face! Folding her arms and accepting that something was afoot that had quite obviously not happened for her mother, she began tapping her foot – a warning just as true as the red hair. Granted the break had melded nicely into the music, it was still a surprise that she could have done without if she was to maintain the persona.

The choir sang a line of the bridge staccato.

The energy flowing through the music was almost tangible.

Her head whipped round, trying to determine how they knew what to do.

Then she heard it.

And within the first bar of the new melody, her feet had carried her away.

* * *

He had meant to surprise her, but only the way he had of old. The rest of it was designed to relax her, to lower her defences and control enough that she could allow the power of Music to work within her. But having heard the way she held her breath, having felt the rapid pulse in her neck, he couldn't help but wonder – not without some satisfaction – if his plan hadn't worked a little too well. 

The music was not quite all he would have hoped, but he had urged Arneau to impress upon them that this was for an O'Neill, knowing that if that didn't have them produce their best in a hurry then nothing would. And they had indeed improved. When she had looked at him again, he knew that it had worked. In Horton's office, he had actually doubted when she'd said that she knew all of Katie's songs, and yet now he could tell she was about to quash those doubts.

He couldn't stop his mouth falling open when she began to sway with the music. Attired in the signature O'Neill black, she seemed to favour clothes that did nothing to hide her every feminine curve – quite the reverse actually. Though he prided himself on always behaving like a gentleman, it took him until she started moving forward before he could take his eyes away from her rear, and even then it was only to watch the graceful way her legs moved.

If absence only made the heart grow fonder, then Beethoven only knew how to tinker with a piano.

When he did eventually snap out of it after the first refrain, he noticed that whilst her voice was indeed as exquisite as he remembered, something was missing. She sang with passion and fire, and yet he knew she could do better. Thinking back, he realised the same could be said of her offering of 'Ode to Joy'. Yet he did not have time to dwell on it as he saw the percussion being arranged at the back of the stage.

Reaching down behind him, he lovingly took up the instrument and made the final preparations before his plan was truly set into motion. He watched as she was startled by the change. Once again, he was thankful he was so selective about those he chose to work with. He had asked that the section blend into the music, yet be different enough that it would cause anyone to sit up and take notice, and his drummer had indeed delivered. Waiting for the moment, he was relieved when he saw her facing the auditorium, though he could well imagine the look on her face.

Striding onto the stage, he quickly placed the familiar instrument under his chin and drew the bow across the strings.

He sought to surprise her. She surprised him.

Actually, were it not for the hindrance of his shoes, she would have knocked his socks off.

He'd seen her dance in the chorus at the Ravelle, but he hadn't known she could do _that_! Barely a few notes in and she was dancing in an echo of his music that he could not have choreographed better himself. And she was dancing as Katie had always longed to: like an Irishwoman. She danced all across the stage and around him in the first few phrases, spinning under his spell whilst casting her own when she moved as close as was possible without disrupting his playing – though he would have been both glad and grateful if she had.

He played expertly, and she danced in kind. The choir added in the bridge subtly as they had been bidden, yet nothing could distract from the duet that was being played out in their midst.

Far too soon, he played the notes that had her moving back to the front of the stage and him hoping she had breath enough to continue. They sang the Gaelic refrain once more as he moved back to the wings. Before the first line had been completed though, he felt two very familiar hands take hold of his. Turning, he saw the beaming smile on her face that made her glow even as she sang and he could do nothing but follow as she drew him forward to share in the closing lines. Finding himself on her left, he watched in awe as the Christine of old returned and sang out with the voice he had trained and nurtured, surprising and delighting all with the life contained therein. And he could do naught else but give her the prominence she deserved.

"Gile mear, the wind and sun The sleep is over, dream is done To the west where fire sets To the gile mear, the day begun"

As they approached the last chorus, she turned back to him and held her hand out and beckoned to him. Delighted, he approached, though he did not sing, knowing what was coming. Taking one of her hands instead of allowing both of hers to claim one of his, he raised it to his lips and kissed it just as the chorus reached its penultimate line.

Seeing the delight on her face was worth releasing her as he placed his beloved but easily usurped instrument beneath his chin and drew the bow across the strings in a subtle but brilliant and perfect accompaniment as the refrain was repeated one last time.

"'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear 'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear Suan nó séan ni bhfuair mé féin Ó chauigh I gcéin mo ghile mear"

The choir drew nearer at Christine's behest until all were assembled at the front, her eyes moving over them all, resting on his the longest and with the most abandoned joy; finally turning her head back to the front, even though her eyes closed in delight when the last line was repeated and her hands raised with the final note as the chorus echoed the bridge in a stunning finale.

The silence was full, but those gathered were ecstatic.

Her hands lowered, her head falling. The applause was overwhelming though it only came from a small choir and orchestra.

Ignoring them all, she turned to her Angel, her eyebrow raised in query.

And her Angel smiled.

It worked.

* * *

**AN: The song is Mo Ghile Mear and taken from the _Celtic Woman_ album _A New Journey_. When I was trying to find the translations not provided in the album sleeve, I discovered that the chorus is actually from a different song, but it still sounds funky so never mind. Anyway, to save you asking me in any reviews that you might send my way (not hinting . . . much . . . honest!), here's what the Gaelic means.**

**"Lá na mara Lá na mar nó rabharta" "The day of the sea The day of the sea or of the high tides"**

**"Guth na dtonnta a leanadh Guth na dtonnta a leanfad, ó" "To follow the voice of the waves I would follow the voice of the waves, oh"**

**"Lá na mara nó lom trá Lá na mara nó rabharta ****Lá an ghainimh Lom trá Lá an ghainimh" "The day of the sea or the ebb tide The day of the sea or of the high tides The day of the sands The ebb tide The day of the sands" **

**"'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear 'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear Suan nó séan ni bhfuair mé féin Ó chauigh I gcéin mo ghile mear" "He is my hero, my dashing darling He is my Caesar, dashing darling I've had no rest from forebodings Since he went far away my darling"**

**"Amhrán na farraige, ór ar na seolta Amhrán na farraige, ag seoladh na bhfonta Ag seinm na farraige Seinn . . ." "Song of the sea, gold on the sails Song of the sea, sending the melodies Playing the sea Play . . ."**

**Hope that helps. In case you're wondering, yes I knew (or at least had a vague idea) about the meaning when I put it in. Trust me, it will all tie in. Thanks again. N.**


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: At risk of sounding like a broken gramophone: gratuitous apologies for the delay. Unfortunately, since I am trying to be good and work with my beta thus giving you all the improved version of my work: the wonderful world of technology has inevitable decided to throw a spanner - wait, as the Huns said to once mighty Rome: sack that! - the whole toolbox into the works. Congratulations if you made sense of that. Suffice to say AN's are un-beta-ed. Basically, delay was caused by technical difficulties, which we think may have been resolved now. Sorry! I am trying to be good!!**

**Oh, it's official: after receiving several reviews making comments along these lines, I checked with my beta who has said that yes, the brogue is getting annoying. Believe me I know, because I'm the one who has to figure out how to type it. PLEASE stick with me: it is by no means a permanent thing, and the Christine of old will be surfacing within a few chapters (don't know how many 'cause I ain't written 'em yet!). I do have my reasons for sticking with the O'Neill persona so long, so please indulge me and be patient just a wee while longer. **

**Thanks to UinenDolothen, jtbwriter, Timeflies, laal ratty, Nyasia A. Maire, KyrieofAccender, chrys.cadis.chasa, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ, mildetryth, phantom-jedi1, OperaLover and Norma Leann Zane for their latest reviews. **

**An extra special thank you to montaquecat to whom I would like to dedicate the next two chapters. Hon, saying you sound like you've been in the wars lately would probably be an understatement. Hope these offerings cheer you up a wee bit. And you definitely get an Erik-shaped hug. Thanks for all your PM's and keeping me on my toes.**

**To all my readers and reviewers: thanks again, and enjoy! Your ever-grateful authoress, Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission. 

Chapter 8

Having established that yes, Danny had been aware of the 'slight alterations' to _Mo Ghile Mear_; no, he had not heard the last of it; yes, he was in trouble and no, it wouldn't be forgotten any time soon; Christine finally managed to come down from the ceiling where the impromptu performance had left her and went in search of a certain other figure in black who had disappeared rather swiftly with the excuse of putting his violin away. Whilst the morning spent working with Danny and part of the orchestra on some of the O'Neill repertoire had been pleasant – in spite of her anxieties over the aforementioned figure in black – it was nothing to the direction the day had taken. Was it possible she had forgotten what it was really like to be on the same stage as him? To have him perform with her, maybe even for her? To lose herself completely in the wonder of his presence, his spell, his Music, all the while knowing he was experiencing the same? Certainly her memories had failed to capture the sheer ecstasy of the sensation; otherwise she might have actually had something to cling onto these last years.

It didn't take her long to reach her goal: the practice room she had found him in earlier – Danny having assured her that it had become his base of operations. She closed the door behind her as soon as she was in; and based on the look on his face, he was in the middle of something. Although, based on the look on his face when he saw who had disturbed him, the disruption was not in truth unwelcome.

Straightening from the papers he had been leaning over, he began moving towards her. She met him halfway. And throwing her arms around his neck, took whatever words he had been about to speak from out of his mouth. Slowly, somewhat hesitantly, he returned the embrace as though it were his first. Given the length of time since the last he'd received from his rose, it might as well have been. They stood there a long while, she with her head resting on his chest, his head resting atop the red hair; both as natural as though they had never been parted.

"Thank you."

The words came softly, being somewhat buried, as Christine had yet to move. Being similarly lost in the moment, he almost missed them. Almost. He did wonder if it was his imagination or if the accent had been lacking then.

At length, they parted slightly; though the embrace remained whole, they at least had room to look at one another.

"Better?" Not that he really needed to ask, but he wanted her assurance all the same before he surprised her once more. He was warmed greatly by the smile that lit up her features in reply.

"Can you bring the O'Neill magic back to the stage?" The smile that tugged at his lips was not easily repressed at her fervent nodding, yet he managed it in order to elaborate:

"Good. So long as it is _your_ magic that you offer on that stage. Anything else would not be worthy of you, nor of Katie."

Her face froze and he felt her tense in his hold. Moving his hands to her shoulders that he might better see what the matter was, it was his turn to freeze when she whispered in the thickest brogue he'd heard from her yet:

"Ye knew her." He released her slightly.

"Of course I knew her. Few could come to The Clover without knowing her."

She took hold of him this time, making sure he was looking at her and the depth of meaning she was trying to convey.

"No. Ye knew her. No one called her Katie unless she let 'em. She ne'er let folk call her that unless they were close to her. And I've lost count o' the number o' times you've called her Katie;" Moving her face closer so that he didn't dare look away, she said again, "ye knew her."

"Yes. I knew her. She began my 'career' in music." Hearing the thickness in his voice and feeling lost in the confusion his answer wrought, she absently rubbed his shoulder to let him know it was alright.

"You seem surprised. At least now there's another way to tell the difference between the two of you."

As he moved away, she wondered at the hurt in his voice. Mostly she wondered at his strange revelation. If he had known Katie, then did he know who she was in relation to her? Did he know before . . . at the Ravelle? _How_ had he known her mother? Quickly she raced through her memories, looking for something, anything that was even vaguely like him. She all but stamped in frustration. Either her mother had known him and not shared that memory, or she had not done so outright.

"Maybe I just cannae remember everytin' she told me. I doubt ye could be easily forgotten by her . . . or anyone." Turning, he saw a message in her eyes that rekindled the hope he had just been laying to rest. Content with that and unwilling to risk parting with it so swiftly, he moved on to his own petition.

"I shall hope that you remember. I would not want your memories of her to be incomplete. And now that you are confident in your music, I have something to ask of you, if I may?"

"Of course." she replied, relieved that she hadn't jeopardised things between them with her reaction and wanting to maintain the goodwill that seemed to have developed.

"How familiar are you with _Carmen_?"

* * *

She watched the dancers with a vacant expression – which was no easy task. 

When he, Erik – that still felt so strange – had explained what he wanted her to do, she had been confused to say the least. Now as she watched the dancers attempt and fail to convey the opening song from act two of Bizet's most famous opera, she was beginning to get something of an idea. Looking past the energetic gyrations of the dancers who would look perfect in a hip-hop or rap video but would only be laughed off an operatic stage if they were lucky; looking beyond the surface she saw the undercurrents and emotions of the entire opera. He was trying to bring Carmen to life. Clearly he had had a hand in the choreography, but equally clearly, he was not pleased with the results of leaving the dancers to their own devices – if the black glare he was barely suppressing was anything to judge by. He had always been controlling when it came to music; when it came to his music, possessive was putting it lightly. Now that it was his first concert in public upon which a vast depth of emotion appeared to be riding, she knew it was not going to be pleasant if the dancers' current farce couldn't be corrected soon.

At last, the music finished. Silence. Standing at his side, she looked down at him and saw a muscle working in his jaw. Lightly, she let her hand rest on his shoulder. He looked up at her in question and she turned her attention back to the dancers. Looking to the young woman who appeared to be leading the set, she began:

"Sorry, I don't believe I know yer name." Obviously surprised that she was being addressed directly, and clearly suspecting a reprimand, she answered warily.

"Claire." Smiling warmly, Christine moved forward and offered her hand which was briefly taken.

"Claire. I'm Miss O'Neill. I was just wonderin': could ye tell me what ye were told to do fer this dance?" Looking at her as though she'd grown a third ear on top of her head, the dancer replied:

"Well, we start with a basic step-"

"No, sorry. My fault. I saw the choreography. What were ye told aboot how to make it more than just steps. How were ye told to act, to behave?"

"You got a problem with the dance?"

"No, no. I thought it was grand." Christine answered quickly, trying to calm the affronted dancers down. Not that it worked on a certain other gentleman in the room.

"Have you lost your mind, Miss _O'Neill_?"

She recognised that voice. It meant there was only one right answer and woe betide anyone who said otherwise. _Bring on the woe_.

"No, Mr. Destler. Now would ye mind buttonin' it?" she answered swiftly before turning back to the conversation she had already begun. _3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . ._

"What was that?" The hand on her shoulder made her jump slightly, though she wasn't at all surprised by the rest. Turning to face the man who now towered over her with thunder in his voice and fire in his eyes, she put her hand on his chest and replied:

"It means, _shush_. Now" Applying gentle pressure, she began moving him back, though it was probably her attitude that propelled him rather than herself, "I can tell ye weren't thrilled by the dance and if you'll just give me a minute I can try and see hoo to fix it."

"That, Miss O'Neill, was a gross understatement." Pushing past her, he went on, his frustration at a point beyond that which he could contain. "I fail to see how you could apply the term 'grand' to this _shambles_ unless you were referring to the disaster that was presented. It barely coordinated with the music and it certainly bore no resemblance. These 'dancers' don't seem to know the first thing about style,"

"Mr. Destler-"

"Not to mention their complete disregard for tempo and rhythm. I don't doubt Bizet would be turning in his grave if this was ever let near the stage. I've seen penguins with more skill."

"MR. DESTLER!" Finally he stopped and looked at the red head only to realise her hair was not the only part of her that was burning. "For yer information, everyone, that was actually a complement. Penguins happen to be very good dancers,"

"Miss O'Neill-"

"And if Mr. Destler disagrees with me, he clearly hasn't seen _Mary Poppins_." Seeing a number of the dancers struggling to hide smirks, she allowed the relief to calm her down a little.

"Miss O'Neill, now is hardly the time for jokes. In case you hadn't noticed-"

"Erik." That got his attention. She went on with a quiet steel that was all too familiar to him: "They get the point. And I noticed plenty. For starters, I noticed that the choreography was very good. I also noticed that these dancers must be pretty well skilled to pull it off. And I noticed a lot of potential here, if you'll just let me try and get to it." She'd approached him as she'd spoken and they now stood toe to toe, challenging one another. The dancers surrounding them looked in awe at the Irishwoman who was daring to defy the man who had intimidated all others he'd worked with. Still frowning, he nodded, arms folded in stubbornness.

"Right, now then, Claire, where were we?"

"Basically, it's hip-hop and it needed to be sexy." the thoroughly bemused dancer replied.

"That's what ye were told?" – a nod – "right, well it did look good, and I don't doubt it'd be brilliant in a music video for that sort o' ting, but it doesnae really work for this. Who came up with it, by the way?"

A slender man approached who looked as though he'd been designed to be a dancer.

"I did. Piers Hamilton. What exactly do you mean, 'it doesn't work'?" Not bothering to even offer his hand, it was clear that he didn't mind arguing with her, though the same wouldn't be said of the other musician in the room.

"Where did this come from? The dance, I mean. Where did ye get yer inspiration?"

The man then proceeded to rattle off a list of artists and routines that he had not only come up with, but drawn on. Listening to him, she realised that she would have to tread very carefully. Not only did he have a very impressive set of credentials, but she had seen the proof that he could use them – but for the fact that they were misapplied.

"Ye sound like ye know what you're doin', and I'm not knockin' that – I've seen the proof."

"Then what exactly is the problem?" _Would he have allowed himself to sound so irate were he talking to her Angel_, she couldn't help but wonder.

"The problem is, ye didnae let the music guide you. You've missed the essence of Carmen."

"I am familiar with the opera."

"Not enough. Or at least, you're not familiar with who Carmen is."

"What do you mean?"

* * *

_"What do you mean?" _

_"Will you be Carmen?" Christine looked over the score in front of her, taken aback by the strange question. _

_"I don't understand. Ye didnae write this." He smirked, as though to say 'of course not, I can do much better,' something of which she was all too aware. _

_"True. For all the pleasantness of her repertoire, Katie did enjoy more demanding roles and was well received in them." _

_"She always did like Carmen." _

_"You say that as though she wasn't alone in her opinion." She looked at the raised eyebrow and decided to give him this one, if only because she was curious as to his reaction. _

_"I must have been all of two or three at the time. But I remember seeing a video of Carmen and falling head of heels for that overture. It's the first piece of music I ever loved – well, the first mainstream piece anyhoo. It still gets me every time." She beamed up at him. The fondness in his eyes as he returned her smile melted her and she had to look away, lest the tears that threatened managed to spill. _

_"So what're ye usin' this fer, if ye didnae write it?" _

_"I adapted it. It only requires one voice, and it has a shorter introduction." He moved to stand behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered into her ear: "More subtle." _

_"Why this one?" He came around to face her, though one hand never left her shoulder. _

_"Do you know Carmen? Do you know what she is?" Tipping her chin up, he wanted to see her full answer. _

_"Aye." _

_"She is many things. But there is a life and fire within her that Katie shared. She merely has to sing a note and she captivates, just as Katie did." His hand under her chin moved to cup her face. "Just as you do. I will give them a taste of my music in the first act. The second will blend mine with hers to ease the audience into the final. This will be the last piece. By this point, they should have realised that the O'Neill music is coming. But this will bring _your_ music into it. This will make you a part of the whole concert as opposed to one act." _

_His hands were still, and yet she felt his caresses all over her, for his voice was as gentle and real a touch as any hand, no matter how skilled, and she closed her eyes captured by its spell. _

_"Why this song?" Her eyes fluttered open. "Why not one of your own?" _

_"I will use my own, but I will introduce her by using the music that was hers. I will show them all that she was . . . all that she was to me by using the music she loved, that embodied the side of her that I knew." _

_Christine thought over the words of the song he was asking her to sing, the role he was asking her to embrace. Yes, he had known her mother. But from a distance. _

_She agreed.

* * *

_

"What I mean is that you've failed to take into account _who_ Carmen is, what she is."

"And what is she?" With a hand on his hip, Christine tried to suppress the image that Piers looked rather like a coffee pot. Instead she focussed on what her Angel had said to her on this subject. And more importantly, the way he had said it.

The brogue thickened. Her voice deepened and softened. She spoke as slowly as she moved about the room with her answer, her body echoing the sentiments she was conveying: subtlety, grace, prowess. Seduction.

"I know Carmen is often portrayed as being brazen, but ne'er consistently so. No offence ladies, but that's what ye were doin'. Carmen is brazen in a lot o' ways, but only because she chooses to be. Not because she has to be. Carmen gets attention simply by bein' on stage. She doesnae have to move or speak or sing. If she's there, folk notice. But if she does move, or speak, or sing, then everyone – _everyone_ – notices.

"Ye see, with men, it's Don Juan. With women, it's Carmen. She is the ultimate seductress. But where Don Juan seduces, he uses and leaves. With Carmen, she ne'er stops. Now she may – and often does – leave, but she ne'er stops. She isnae just a seductress: she **is** seduction. No matter who ye are, no matter whether you want it or not, she will entice you, she will captivate you, and she will make you crave her."

She shifted her movements as she altered the course of her conversation. She began moving closer to people instead of just amongst them, and the closer she moved to a man, the more her motions resembled a dance. And the more they followed.

"This song is all aboot that. It doesnae embody all that Carmen is quite the same as the _Haba__ñera_, but it isnae meant to. This song is aboot her spell, but mostly, it's about the magic of Music. It starts out slow, quiet, and it works so subtly that you dinnae realise you're under its power until ye dinnae want to be otherwise. It beats with the rhythm of life and demands that ye live, that ye respond. It paints with the colours of fire and it burns you with that after makin' ye want to be consumed. It moves with passion and that is how it possesses ye."

She stood between her maestro and the dance instructor, looking at the latter, moving towards him, making him echo her movements.

"Ye see, Carmen doesnae have to be brazen: Music does the work for her." She stopped Piers with a raised hand, and only then did he realise he had moved at all. She smiled a knowing, calculating smile – she smiled like Carmen – and turned back towards her former mentor.

"The music takes hold o' ye until every part o' ye is doin' as it commands. The music is irresistible. But Carmen, simply by followin' it an' combining it with her own magic," – she was barely an inch from him when his hand slid around her waist and she traced her fingers up his chest to his chin enunciating each word very deliberately – "she makes it absolute intoxication." With one finger under his chin, she closed his mouth that had fallen open some time ago, and broke the spell.

"Did I forget anythin'?" The smile she wore was far too sweet and innocent. And he was more tempted than ever to wipe it away with a kiss. Hang the music and Carmen: it was Christine who possessed, who consumed. She was irresistible and he knew how sweet an intoxication she was. Worst of all, he didn't doubt that she was all too aware of the effect her spell was having.

Taking his silence as a satisfactory answer, she turned – though he was relieved she didn't move to be released from his hold, or he may well have finally gone insane.

"Now, Mr. Hamilton, do ye mind if I have a go at workin' that into your choreography?"

"I'm not sure, I . . ."

"I won't be changin' the steps or anythin', like I said I thought it was grand. It just needs a bit o' tweakin'."

"Very well."

"And do ye mind if it's just myself and the dancers? I don't want to start arguin' with ye when we've only just met." she asked with a smile few could have resisted after her little performance. Piers bowed slightly and left, which she was greatly relieved about. No doubt he would have had a hard time relinquishing control otherwise. Though if the hand still on her waist was anything to go by, he was probably a novice in the ways of being possessive.

"You too, Mr. Destler." she instructed, not daring to face him with all the heat he was generating.

"I'd rather stay."

"And I'd rather surprise you. Besides," she turned but stepped away as she did so, though his hand didn't leave her, "based on your previous opinion of the dancers, I reckon you'd be more help when we've got a final product for ye."

Realising he was in trouble – and that he would be in more of a different sort if he carried on looking at her in his present state of mind – he conceded some measure of defeat.

"Half an hour."

"Challenge accepted."

"En garde, mademoiselle." he replied with a smirk, which only broadened into a full-blown grin as she called over her shoulder,

"Non, monsieur: prend garde à toi!"

* * *

**AN: _prend garde à toi!_ is from a song in Act 1 of _Carmen_ called _Habanera_. Very famous piece of music. If you think you've never heard it, you've probably have, only it'll have been butchered as a ringtone. Sorry for the Phantom-esque-ness there (not really), but I'm kinda picky about music sometimes, in spite of my weird and varied taste in it. Anyhoo, back to the point: it comes from the repeated line: _Mais, si je t'aime, si je t'aime, prend garde à toi!_ which means 'but if I love you, if I love you, be on your guard/you'd better watch out!'. Basically, a bit of in-character flirting that both parties get, seeing as they're opera nuts. If you've never heard the song, go to youtube and search for Anne-Sofie von Otter singing it. Trust me, you've never seen Carmen sing quite the way she does. BTW, Habanera is NOT the song that he wants her to sing. Erik-shaped hug for anyone other than my beta (who already knows) if they can work out what it is before I post again. Cheers! N.**


	10. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Sorry! I am trying to stick to weekly postings, but life will insist on getting in the way. To those who were with me at the start of _A Father's Promise_, it's weekly instead of daily because I'm no longer a student and therefore now have a 'normal' (read 'horrible') schedule. Which means less time to write.**

**Hopefully, this will serve as an apology. It's long because . . . it just wouldn't stop. Hope you don't mind. And it's something I believe you've been waiting for.**

**Thanks to KyrieofAccender, TalithaJ, laal ratty, jtbwriter, Lady Winifred, Nyasia A. Maire, Timeflies, mildetryth, OperaLover, montaquecat and Passed Over for their latest reviews.**

**For all those who are merely tolerating the brogue at best: this chapter is entirely brogue free. Congratulations to Nyasia A. Maire, Timeflies and mildetryth (you half got it) for guessing the identity of the song. Apparently I didn't quite manage to delete all gievaways when I decided to make it a surprise, but seeing as some of you remained baffled, it kinda worked.**

**NOTE TO ALL READERS: In case any of you are confused/wondering as you read: I was inspired by a very specific version of this song which is pretty different to the operatic one - not completely, but enough of a difference all the same. If you're wondering, then look up Opera Babes. It's on their first album.**

**As mentioned earlier, this chapter is also dedicated to montaquecat. Hope it cheers you up. Thanks again, everyone and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.

Chapter 9

She was determined to drive him mad.

It was the only thing he could think of. _She_ was the only thing he could think of. She had come alive again before his eyes. He had made his rose flourish and bloom once more; had heard her voice ascend into the heavens and he had dared to fly with her. When she had finally realised the truth about his being there, he had hoped she would acknowledge the fullness of it. Instead she had brought him crashing back down to earth. But not to its depths; no, she had allowed him to retain his hope.

When he had asked her to be Carmen, it had been because of the life, the fire he had seen within her as she'd sung, as she'd spoken of Music, of Katie . . . of anything. The reasons he had given her were true enough, but most of all, he wanted her to live, to sing. Why, he didn't know, but somehow she had failed to keep the promise he had asked of her – though not for want of trying if her education was anything to judge by.

And she had agreed to his request. Had she ever agreed!

He had been astounded by the way she had spoken to him, especially in front of the others. His Christine of old had rarely talked back to him, and yet he should not have been surprised for the few times she had, that same passion of conviction had been within her. A smirk creased his lips as he remembered the way she had handled the toad after her insults to his rose's father. No, he shouldn't have been surprised. After all, he did keep forgetting that he was supposed to 'humanise' his manners now. But when she had spoken of Carmen! He had thought he had her mesmerised when he had made his request. Either he had missed something those years ago or he was a rank amateur in comparison. Her voice, usually exquisite, had become completely enthralling: binding all within its spell, in spite of the resistance he saw in more than one. But the way she had moved, at first subtle and beguiling; then bolder, her curves flowing in graceful movements with every step until finally she had been all but tangoing with half the men in the room – men who had been all too willing to comply with her every whim from the looks on their faces and the way their bodies had responded. They had responded much the way as he, though he had remained in his place, seeing as she had steered clear of him from the start. It was wise: if those dogs had acted like that towards **his** Christine for one moment more he would have reverted back to his old ways in an instant.

When she had spoken of Music though! When she had entered his realm once more with her words, she had turned her focus back towards him . . . he had been burning by the power of her speech, but with her presence . . . he didn't know whether to explode or melt. With her in his hold, he had known it had to be the latter. As she had touched him . . . did she have any idea the torture she was putting through? The agonisingly sweet seduction?

She knew.

That look in her eyes as she broke the spell she had so carefully woven; that look that had made him want to devour her until she had surrendered to him: that look had said that she knew all too well the power she held. The remainder of the conversation had proven that she was willing to use it. He didn't know whether to scream in frustration or savour the delight. Given the fact that he was sure the clock was going backwards, he was veering towards the former. But the thought of what his rose would do . . . frantically he tried to calm himself down.

Three years.

Three years he had spent disciplining himself to keep his mind from such thoughts; to keep his memories of Christine within boundaries he could endure. Yet one word, one look . . . one touch and she had made him abandon thought and let the dream descend. Effortlessly it seemed, she had encapsulated all that he had offered her in his opera and delivered it back masterfully in a way that would have any man who wasn't deaf or blind beg for her.

His opera.

_Don Juan Triumphant . . ._

The words she had used . . . what message had she been trying to send? For Carmen and Don Juan, seduction was their art. For he and his rose: their art was music. Was she saying that she had never stopped, that her dedication was still as strong even though he had left? Were that the case, could it be possible she had meant more than just her dedication to music?

Grasping his hair in frustration, he allowed the carpet some small reprieve and stopped his pacing. The woman was determined to drive him mad. _And she was enjoying it!_ So many possibilities, so many promises begun yet left half done.

_. . . Carmen __**is **__seduction. No matter who ye are, no matter whether you want it or not, she will entice you, she will captivate you, and she will make you crave her._

He smiled. Oh yes, _so_ **many** possibilities. He was right in asking this of his rose: she was Carmen.

Looking back at the clock, 'relieved' didn't begin to cut it when he saw that his wait was over. All but running back to the practice room, he scanned the suddenly descended darkness, searching for that head of red hair. His frustrations reached a level he had never before even anticipated when he realised she wasn't there.

Resuming the seat he had taken for the last 'performance', his one quiet order reverberated around the room, and none dared disobey.

"Begin."

* * *

The darkness closed in.

The sound of a heartbeat was all that could be heard.

She didn't even dare breathe.

Running to and from her mother's dressing room was probably not the wisest course, given that she needed to, and had every intention of singing. But there was no way she could make this dance work whilst wearing trousers. From the second she'd heard the music, she'd begun to picture the look of it in her head. Watching the dancers – once the initial reflexive grimace of distaste had been quelled – she had seen it come to life in her mind. Thankfully, they had worked hard and were every bit as good as she'd thought. Coupled with their desire to stay on the right side of Erik's – that _still_ felt so strange – temper, it had not taken long at all to 'tweak' it into shape. Once she'd mentioned the two words behind her thinking, they had all fallen into place, as though they had been held back by the original version and were finally allowed to surrender to the music and their art.

Their efficiency was a welcome relief, as it had allowed her time to change whilst going through a somewhat hurried warm-up. She only hoped his music would still work its magic. She knew that it could, but equally she knew how particular Music was about whose shoulders it lighted upon. And now was not the time to lose that load.

When she heard his voice through the darkness, she forgot everything save the fact that this was for him. He had asked her to be Carmen. Her Angel had asked her to sing. Stepping through the wall and into the comfort of the shadows she knew cloaked him also, she settled back into the corner, allowing the opening lazy phrase of the guitar to calm her into a similar frame of mind and stance, her eyes closed to all but Music.

Her head was tipped to the left, and as flutes began their first measure, her hand undulated at her thigh. When they began again, she allowed her head to lift and fall to the right, her lips parting as her hand once more echoed the music, more prominent as it trailed over her body. One more strum to open her eyes, and slowly, ever so slowly; she began.

"Les tringles des sistres tintaient/avec un éclat métallique,/et sur cette étrange musique/les zingarellas se levaient."

_The rods of the sistrums jangled/with a metallic twang,/and at the sound of this strange music/the gypsy girls stood up._

The guitar picked up pace, as did she. An oboe took up the melody, the deeper sound giving the music a richer body, as Christine allowed hers to be led by it. Remaining in the corner, she let her hips move as the music commanded, allowing her right hand to further paint the picture the words offered.

"Tambours de basque allaient leur train,/et les guitares forcenées/grinçaient sous des mains obstinées,/même chanson, même refrain,/même chanson, même refrain."

_Tambourines tinkled, tinkled,/and the frenzied guitars/ground out, under persistent fingers, the same song, the same refrain,/the same song the same refrain._

As she repeated the last line, she once again made her movements more pronounced; drawing her hand up towards her fairly low neckline, before drawing it slowly down the centre of her body. The 'tra la la's of the refrain found her eyes closed, both her hands circling expressively, as though part of a flamenco number; however, her left remained on her thigh shifting her skirts about until the point at which the song would have otherwise become a trio. Then it rose to move in harmony with its counterpart. Sending the final note of the lyrically simple chorus out into the room, she finally allowed opened her eyes, their sight immediately latching onto her prey. With the first part of the next verse, she moved towards him in keeping with the original choreography, but her movements were slow, deliberate, steady and above all: predatory.

"Les anneaux de cuivre et d'argent/reluisaient sur les peaux bistrées;/d'orange ou de rouge zébrées/les étoffes flottaient au vent."

_Copper and silver rings/glittered on tawny skins;/striped in orange and red/scarves and skirts fluttered in the wind._

Singing of the luscious fabrics moving in the wind, her fingers trailed lightly across the back of the dancer's shoulders as she stepped to the left and into his line of sight, her hand moving over her body until it rested on her hip.

"La danse au chant se mariait,/la danse au chant se mariait;/d'abord indécise et timide,/plus vive ensuite et plus rapide.../cela montait, montait, montait, montait!"

_Dance wed with song,/Dance wed with song,/uncertain and timid at first,/then livelier and faster,/it grew wilder, wilder, wilder, wilder!_

As the dance wed with song, dancer joined with singer, drawing her swiftly into step with him, turning her again so they both faced the 'audience' side-on. Uncertainly, he moved back, drawing her with him. His timidity had her step away from him, though not his hold. The music grew livelier and he pulled her to him, her hand landing on his chest. The words became wilder as she traced her fingers slowly up his body to his chin, her lips drawing ever closer to his – but her fingers got there first and she flirtatiously stepped away.

The chorus began again as she moved across the stage, her feet reminiscent of a tango, her hips swaying more exotically and her hands speaking once more of flamenco. The women, who had previously been doing battle with their men over who was to lead the tango – the men technically winning, though they were held captive by their partners – came between Carmen and the man she had been luring, making the enticement all the stronger. Completing one final turn and drawing a hand from head to waist again, she began the second half of the chorus. This time she remained in one place, her whole body undulating as her hands circled at her waist causing her skirt to rise and fall with the music.

The chorus stopped.

She ceased her movements.

Looking her audience straight in the eye, she began the final verse.

"Les Bohémiens, à tour de bras,/de leurs instruments faisaient rage,/et cet éblouissant tapage/ensorcelait les zingaras."

_Lustily the gypsy men/drove their instruments to fury,/and this dazzling din/held their women spellbound._

Each line was punctuated by guitar and tambourine. After the first, she was spun around by her partner who had finally returned to her side. At the second, he pulled her back behind him. The third line had him leading her by the waist into another dance though she didn't concede any other contact. And by the fourth, she had pulled away and stormed over to the other side of the room, where she waited hand on hip, knowing smirk in place for what was coming.

"Sous le rhythme de la chanson,/sous le rhythme de la chanson,/ardentes, folles, enfiévrées,/elles se laissaient, enivrées,/emporter par le tourbillon!"

_Under the rhythm of the song,/under the rhythm of the song,/ardent, wild, feverish/all but drunk, they let themselves/be carried away by the giddy ground._

Under the rhythm of the song, she was pulled back around to face her partner. The movement was repeated with the words so that her back was against his front, her head tilted to the right. Giving in to the meaning of the lyrics, he attempted to 'ardently' caress her but she refused to let him handle her in a manner that was 'all but drunk' and pulled away in indignation, circling him as she raised her hand first in accusation, then in offer, she finally allowed him to carry her away.

Standing in his arms as before, this time her head was tilted to the left as his hands – on top of hers – moved over the top half of her body, sensually caressing every curve before returning to her hips where she left them, freeing her own. Her hands circled and snaked upwards in the second half of the refrain, her hips moving in a more pronounced fashion, all in perfect harmony with the music. Higher and higher her hands flowed as her voice became even more animated, the music driving to its pinnacle until with the final note she let out a cry and whirled around to be carried off into the dance.

The tango was fast, energetic and strong. It seemed as though step for step the pair matched every note. Her partner dipped her, spun her, wrapped her leg around him, and yet a look remained in her eyes that declared for all to see who exactly was in control of both dance and man. Finally, the music reached its dizzying conclusion – in more ways than one – as Christine was spun around several times before stopping with a final shout, one arm raised above her head to meet her partner's, the other joining his on her waist. He stared at the fiery redhead whose back was once more pressed against his front and like every other man in the room, wanted to ravish that triumphant smirk from off her face.

Carmen, the ultimate seductress had won.

But not conquered.

* * *

The darkness cloaked all, and though his frustrations were rife, given that he couldn't see his rose, he found some solace in the familiar mantle, and as his music began, he was able to calm himself a little.

A flash.

The glimmer of her ring – _his_ ring – allowed him to make out a familiar shape, though there wasn't enough light to see much more. He saw her hand moving in harmony with the flute. As her hand moved, he saw a few of the women step slowly out onto the floor, their bodies alluring and enticing the men who followed. But his eyes soon returned to the woman who stood in the far corner of the room as the lights began to rise and he saw her eyes were closed, mouth open in pleasure as though his music was her lover's caress. Her hand slid down her leg, teasing all who saw with the possibility of what lay beneath her touch. Her eyes opened with the last phrase of the guitar and the lights finally revealed her to his hungry gaze. Wearing a scarlet corset and a full black lace skirt; with her red hair and bare feet, she looked the very image of Carmen.

Mercifully, the music went on, and he was at last granted some release when her lips parted further and the familiar yet now exquisite song poured forth. Her eyes moved, searching for the gypsy girls who had stood, though her mind was clearly more on the music than the extremely sensual tango they had begun. Yes, the gypsy girls stood; drew their men into the dance and allowed them only the faintest illusion that they were leading. The dance belonged to the women. And the song belonged to Carmen, whose hips began to sway all too noticeably as 'les zingarellas se levaient'.

The music was gentle, as was her dance and yet it still captivated. He followed every sway of her hip, every movement of her hand that drew his eyes over her body until finally her fingers moved oh so subtly upward and back down; then oh so deliberately repeated the movement, winding up her bodice and drawing back down so that every set of eyes including his own were fixed on the rise and fall of her chest.

She closed her eyes in a pleasure that was evident on her face, her hands and hips moving in one glorious whole, her left shifting her skirt so that it simultaneously tantalised and tormented with the barest glimpses of her porcelain legs. In the second half of the refrain, he could only think back to her words in description of this spectacle:

_Carmen doesnae have to be brazen: Music does the work for her_

Her actions were bordering on brazen, but coupled with the music . . . how was he going to sit through another three minutes of this?

The words stopped and her eyes opened. And he saw what she did: one lone figure who had moved to the centre of the room and who had clearly just been marked as her prey. Seeing the curious and hungry look in her eyes, he looked back at the man she had set her sights on and found his fingers itching for a rope for the first time in a _very_ long while.

The tempo increased, and she pushed herself from off the wall and began moving towards her prey. Every step matched the music, and every movement seemed to show off her already enhanced figure. He saw Piers' surprise when she remained behind her partner as she captured his attention – quite the reverse of what had happened previously. _Good girl_, he thought, understanding how much more suitable her choice of behaviour was. As she stood waiting, he fought the urge to go to her side. Big mistake. The arms of his chair suffered under his grip when he saw that other – a mere boy – draw his Christine into his hold. He felt somewhat relieved when said boy clearly didn't have a clue what he was doing and she stepped away. It was all he could do not to jump up in outrage as the young dancer pulled her to him and she actually _caressed_ him in return. Her partner's face was not the only one to be tortured.

Through a sea of whirling fabrics and swirling bodies, Christine moved effortlessly, her dance never once losing any of its seductive power. Turning and drawing her hand down the front of her body as she looked back at her partner one last time, she finally stopped in front of him. Erik barely noticed his jaw dropping as her entire body undulated and swayed, her skirt rising and falling in a heightened repetition of the first stanza's torment.

The chorus stopped.

She ceased her movements.

Looking him straight in the eye, she began the final verse.

And it was all he could not to pull her to him. Or at the very least, away from the fool who was yanking her about like an animal in some attempt at a dance. When the final refrain began, he could barely contain himself. There, not ten feet away, was his Christine in the arms of another, their movements an exact replica of _their_ duet from _Don Juan Triumphant_! The same caresses, the same power, the same l . . .

No.

It wasn't the same. Leaning forward, he saw: there was fire in her eyes and passion in her body, but it was buried. The only response elicited in her came from the music. Had that boy known what he was doing, she would never have been able to relinquish his hold so easily; so unaffectedly return to her own spell. Their tango at the end merely confirmed his suspicions. Yes, the movements were wild and in keeping with the music, but their complete lack of spark together inclined their choice of speed more towards 'drunk' than 'feverish'. When it finally ended, he saw the glazed look in the eyes of the one who held her, the look of desire that was understandable albeit infuriating. But in her eyes, he saw only triumph.

Carmen, the ultimate seductress had won.

But not conquered.

After a few moments of breathless silence, all eyes turned to him. And his rested solely on the temptress in scarlet. Lowering her arm to give it a rest, she quirked an eyebrow to him in question.

Silently he rose and moved towards her, every inch the predator she had been. The one who held her let go and stepped away slightly, seeing the wildness in his boss' eyes. Christine held her ground, though she knew that look and wasn't sure she felt fear or exhilaration as a result. Barely inches from her, he finally pronounced:

"Better," circling her, he whispered, "but still not good enough."

Turning only her head to see him, she remained silent, arms folded, awaiting his critique. Stepping between the pair – making it clear with a simple look that the dancer was done – he stood in front of her again and simply looked. He saw the query in her eyes; energy from the dance she had just finished . . . yes, there it was. The more he looked at her, the more the fire within rose to the surface and matched his own.

Not bothering to turn to whoever had been controlling the recording of his music, he simply called out:

"Again. From the first refrain."

Quietly, the dancers all returned to their places. Still the staring contest went on. At length, having understood the look in his eyes from the first, she finally felt as though she had enough strength inside of her to withstand whatever he was up to; shifting her expression to indicate she had accepted whatever challenge he was issuing, she turned and resumed her provocative stance in the far corner, closing her eyes in readiness for the music that soon flooded the room once more.

Whoever was playing the music obviously had an interesting sense of humour, seeing as the music began from the final line of the first verse, rather than the refrain. She didn't sing the words – still trying to catch her breath from the last rendition – rather, she let her hands do the talking. When she did start singing the refrain, she could hear the difference in her voice. It wasn't suffering from poor breathing – she'd seen to that. It was richer, more vivid. Indeed, she felt more alive and her actions became even more provocative as a result.

Opening her eyes as the 'tra la la's finished; she had to hide her shock when she saw who was waiting in the centre for her. Aside from being noticeably taller, the all black attire was something of a giveaway that a switch had taken place. She took him in as she sang, the words taking on a slightly breathless quality – though thankfully that did fit with the imagery. Ever so lightly, she trailed her fingers across his shoulders, trying to ignore both that her fingers burned with the sensation and that he tensed with the first contact, before moving off to the side.

Impatiently, she waited for the music to hurry. The music itself was subtle here, appropriate, given the sparks that were flying between the two as he pulled her to him. She fought not to gasp at the look in his eyes. With each note, it seemed that the wildness she had first seen became more prominent, more potent. Though a small distance remained between their bodies, it was evident to all assembled that there might as well not have been. He drew her back, but this time, it was her timidity that had her stepping away. When he pulled her forward, she came flush against his body, her eyes not rising to his until her fingers were at a similar height.

Her touch had burned him from the first, and it was a fire he would gladly be consumed in. He had thought her movements couldn't have been more provocative, more captivating, but she had proved him oh so deliciously wrong as he watched her until her eyes opened. By the time she touched him, he was so wound up with anticipation that the only thing stopping him from pouncing on her was his firm conviction that he was not, nor would ever again be called an animal. Drawing her to him was the sweetest magic. Having her hand trail over him with that sultry look on her face, he lost all concentration and so she easily moved away. The dancers came between them and he realised the depths of frustration she had been intending to provoke.

It worked.

When she began dancing again though, every part of her moving to allure, he stopped still. Was this Christine? Was this his Christine? What had happened to the shy, sweet innocent he had once taught? The spell was working. He had asked her to be Carmen and that was what she had become. But in so doing, he had lost sight of his rose even though she was mere feet away. Finally, the dancers moved out of the way and he spun Christine around. Still under the spell of music, his actions fell in time as he tried to pull her away, but she refused and stormed away once more.

She waited for him. She had seen the anger in his eyes and knew that something was wrong, though for the life of her she couldn't work out what. He had approved – somewhat – of the routine the first time. Now that he was a part of it, it was perfect. So why this anger? It wasn't simply frustration – that was something she could read easily enough – it was far more cryptic. But until the music ended, all she could do was follow the old black magic and hope she could restore him.

Once more he pulled her around before spinning her so she was pressed against him. She felt him trying to draw her away yet again, and so she pulled herself with some difficulty out of his iron grip. Circling him, her song filled with indignation, but of the righteous kind. She had done as he asked – both with words and without – and yet this was his answer? For one brief instant as she held her hand out to him, she let both her façades slip and pleaded with him as she had done so many times before: student to mentor, Christine to Angel. Whatever the problem was, her action seemed to work. This time when he pulled her to him, though the action was forceful, it was accomplished with all the gentleness she knew in him. This time when the two pairs of hands roamed over her body as one, it was all she could do to get the words out. This time: it was right! His breath was hot on her neck; his hands on hers were both commanding and pleading; it was just like . . .

Thoughts of that night broke the spell and she was able to free her hands – except now she was almost reluctant to face him. But face him she did and for the first few measures of the final dance, all she could do was drown in the volcanoes of his eyes as he held her flush against his body and drew them both across the floor. The first time he spun her though, she awoke and realised how much slower their steps were. When he brought her back, the cymbals crashed again and he dipped her down so low her hair skimmed the floor. Yet he brought her back up so slowly, and this time it was his hand that made its way over her front and up her side – which only served to tease one and frustrate both. Once she was facing him again, he spun her, the force of it sending her down to the ground, their eyes locked in a silent, heated challenge as he pulled her along by one arm. When next the cymbals crashed, he yanked her up and she promptly wrapped a leg around his waist, the sheer momentum of their manoeuvres raising her completely off the ground as he effortlessly spun around with her in his arms, their eyes never wavering from one another. Finally, he lowered her slowly, stepping away though never releasing her hand before pulling her back in and spinning her madly several times before the music finally ended and they finished with the same stance as last time.

The music had been wild and frantic. The song was full of fire and passion. The dance that accompanied the song had been sensual and provocative with 'Carmen' becoming more seductive with every move she made. The final refrain where she had been swaying her hips so slowly yet prominently against her partner had driven that man almost over the brink of sweet madness. The culmination of it all – the tango – had been the true challenge: the power of Carmen against the will of a man determined to win her. It had resulted in the pair still locked together with an iron hold; their eyes never having parted save for when she had been spun. Fire did battle with fire, desire mounting in an ever more fervent blaze until there remained only the volcano in the centre of the room that was a mere word or movement away from erupting.

Utterly spellbound, totally captured by the power of the couple in the centre of the room, the other dancers who had given them the floor from the third refrain slowly began to applaud. Hesitantly at first, it grew until it was as loud and enthusiastic as they could muster. Still they remained unmoved. They had given themselves up to Music completely and still remained caught in its magic.

His expression altered slightly.

Deliberately, he allowed his finger to move over the ring he had accidentally grazed. As he did so, the triumph in her eyes slipped away until only longing remained.

_Christine_

He breathed the word almost as a prayer that she alone could hear.

Her raised arm lowered, as did his. Now both her hands rested on his which was wrapped around her waist.

Carmen, the ultimate seductress had won.

And she had conquered them both.


	11. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: laal ratty, TalithaJ, Nyasia A. Maire, OperaLover, Passed Over, KyrieofAccender, jtbwriter, montaquecat, Timeflies, Lady Winifred, Phantom's Elf, UninenDolothen, StakeMeSpike04 (welcome back), mildetryth, OceansAway and phantom-jedi1: guys, I cannot thank you enough for such phenomenal feedback. I have NEVER written anything like that chapter before in terms of either dance or . . . heat for want of a better word, so I was pretty worried about it. But you all gave me such fantastic reviews I simply don't have words to tell you how much it meant to me. I'm thrilled you all liked it that much.**

**One of my reviewers did mention a spot of confusion (not naming names in case anyone gets embarassed), so I'll just explain: in the previous chapter, the dance was only run through twice even though there were three narratives/descriptions of it. The first one was looking at it from where Christine was stood, though not strictly from her point of view. The second description was the SAME performance, but Erik's thoughts on it. The final description was the second run through with Erik and Christine dancing together. I did it that way - aside from getting the full picture on everyone's thoughts - because that music inspired a very specific routine and I wanted everyone to see that as they read. That's why I was nervous about this: lots of detail for a very short space of time.**

**Again, a tremendous thank you to everyone who read this. Hope you enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.

Chapter 10

The Clover was buzzing.

Word had soon spread of the temperamental behaviour of their latest visiting artist and as soon as the residents heard that an O'Neill was taking him on, they had flocked to the practice room. The initial performance had been breathtaking. Not for the first time, many had thought – though none had dared say the words – that this O'Neill had an even more magnificent voice than her predecessor. When the second performance began: the anticipation was almost tangible. Few had doubted that she was Carmen and most had fallen under her spell, wondering how on earth she could be expected to improve.

They soon learnt.

Like the figure clothed in black privileged enough to have her attentions focused on him; _all_ those watching were bewitched by the woman clothed head to toe in seduction and allure. And like the man who held her, they didn't want the performance to end; so bewitching, so captivating, so intoxicating it had been that they were too breathless to even think of applauding until silence had fully reclaimed their hearing. Even when the praise began to die down, still the attention of all was fixed unwaveringly on the couple at the centre of the room; who for the most part remained unmoved.

Until Daniel Arneau headed towards them.

Lightly, he touched her arm, trying to get her attention. Instantly, Erik pulled her away from the conductor slightly, glaring at him for daring to touch his rose. Christine looked between the two – mostly keeping her eyes on her Angel, remembering clearly what his temper could be like at times like this.

"I believe we have your repertoire to go over, Miss O'Neill." Danny said carefully, an eye still on Erik. Hearing those words, realising that they meant Christine's departure, he reflexively tightened his hold of her. With a gentle pressure to his other hand which maintained its steadfast vigil about her waist, she managed to soothe him enough that she was able to breathe. Turning slowly to him – giving her time to even out her breathing – she spoke in the brogue which gave her confidence but was starting to fill many (herself included) with annoyance:

"Was there anythin' else, Mr. Destler?"

Fighting every impulse of both mind and body, he shook his head. A few moments later, realising she was still waiting for him, he fought the urge to groan as he removed his arm from around her warm body, breaking the contact he had spent three years yearning for; relinquishing the presence he still craved into the hands of another. Watching her walk away, his eyes were again drawn to the way she moved – not as Carmen this time, but as herself. How was it that Christine was the more powerful seductress? Because she was his. Or had been.

Or could be.

He only managed to quash the desire to throttle Daniel when he realised that his audience had grown immensely whilst he had been otherwise . . . distracted. Turning his attention back to the dancers, he proceeded to spend the next hour instructing them in the tenets of rhythm, tempo; and the true meaning of _Chanson Boheme_ – not that they needed the latter after the spectacle they had just witnessed. If his ire was heightened at times, or his tone warmer at others; for once it was both overlooked and humoured as there was not one who had borne witness to so intimate performance and been left untouched by it. They could not even imagine how much worse the torment was now that it had ended – nor how much more intense the euphoria had been.

* * *

"Child, what in the name of The Clover is going on?" Danny rounded on her as soon as they were alone in the practice room, both amazed and horrified by Christine's behaviour. She simply stood by the piano waiting patiently for him to calm down – and be more specific. 

"Christine, my dear, for your mother's sake I watched over you when you came. For your own I ask you now: what is there between you and Erik Destler?" She turned away and began fiddling with the sheet music. Danny watched her, realising as with her mother that if he'd been a few decades younger, he probably would have been trying to charm the young woman before him. Truly she was an O'Neill, for only an O'Neill could make him feel such admiration and loyalty on so short an acquaintance.

"Christine?"

"I don't know." Hearing her natural accent for the first time since she'd arrived, he started to realise the affect all this was having on her.

"Five years ago I lost my voice . . . amongst other things;" he heard the pain she made no effort to disguise and knew better than to probe beyond what was offered, "he was the one who gave Music back to me." she looked him straight in the eye as she spoke, allowing him to see what the gypsy song had brought back to the surface; that which had taken her years to suppress and which had been awakened in her with the very first note her Angel had sung yesterday.

"Child, if this is so, why didn't you say sooner? I thought you didn't know him."

"I never knew his name. We parted three years ago."

"Christine, does he return your feelings?" Daniel took hold of her chin as he asked; wanting to make sure he caught all of her answer.

He knew Katie's philosophies on Music and understood all that Christine had meant with the way she had replied – which made him feel a little better about the dance he had witnessed. Had it been based solely on the heat of the moment and the undeniable amount of lust the whole scenario had generated, he would probably have stopped the music before the second verse could begin. Seeing all that was exchanged between the two leads though, he had only been able to stare in rapt wonder. Now seeing the pain that covered Christine's face, he could only dread her response.

For her part, Christine was thinking over all that had transpired between her Angel, both recently and before. At least, that was how she had begun until Danny's full question had sunk in. Then the old memory had returned to tear at her:

_Christine, I love you . . ._

"I don't know." More than that, she didn't dare trust herself with. Nor could she have even begun to explain to Danny, who in many respects reminded her of Mother Giry: he knew so much that a lot could go unsaid. But sometimes too much went unsaid, leaving more left untold. Hearing her Angel's voice anew within her mind – all the more keenly now that she had heard it again so recently – Christine felt her heart breaking into yet more shards which only served to stab the old wounds. Witnessing as much of that as her face could convey, Danny took her into his arms and simply held her.

Having not felt a fatherly embrace for five years – the ones from Gustave were never quite fatherly – all Christine could do was stand there in shock for a few moments. When the sensation began to sink in, her arms rose and wrapped around her mother's old friend. Giving in as much as she dared, she allowed a few dry sobs to break past her defences – though she refused to let the floodgates be breached; knowing that once she did, it would be a long while before they closed again. Once she'd calmed enough, Danny spoke:

"Go and rest, child. You've been through enough today." Offering a faltering smile, she silently thanked him.

"Just be prepared to work hard tomorrow." he called good naturedly after her.

* * *

She was determined to drive him mad. 

When he had let her go with Arneau, he had thought she would be with the conductor for the rest of the day – indeed, the man had confirmed that that had been the plan – but instead he had reached the room to find Arneau leaving and with no sign of Christine anywhere. He had been ready to tear the place apart until Arneau informed him in no uncertain terms that she needed to rest and would be back again tomorrow.

He had waited.

The memories of their dance had driven all thoughts of music and sanity from him; but he had waited.

And she had spent the day with Arneau.

True, he had his own music to rehearse – not that _he_ needed it, but even he couldn't do everything and so he had to suffer through others butchering his work until he managed to get through to them how it was supposed to be. But even with the only distraction that had ever helped in the past; his temper was short, his patience non-existent and his thoughts entirely centred on the red-head who was mere feet away from him, and yet as distant as he had ever made himself from her at the Ravelle.

Was this how she had felt in the months before _Don Juan_?

Had she felt this same . . . frustration that could only be aptly described as dementia when he had refused to be near her in those _wasted_ months? As if he hadn't done it enough already, he added another layer to his self-loathing which memories of that time had inspired; which in turn added to his frustration.

There were only three days to go until the concert, and still he had yet to speak with her. Twice now he had said her name; and still she clung to the façade. At last, the 'musicians' he had to work with finally seemed to grasp what he had been trying to tell them and they played almost without error which meant one thing: he was finally able to leave. Making a beeline for the practice room he knew Arneau had commandeered, his hand had to pause over the door handle when he heard the music; knowing that to enter would undoubtedly interrupt, if not deny him this joy.

The introduction was soft and gentle, with barely anything to it. The voice that filled the void was sweet, poignant and exquisitely Christine.

"I once had a true love and I loved him so well/I loved him far better than my tongue can tell/And I thought that he spoke and to me did say/"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day""

A pause as the piano continued its tinkling. He was beginning to despise the bridges that appeared to be necessary in music.

"If I were an eagle and had wings for to fly/I would fly to his castle and there I would lie/On a bed of green laurel I would lay myself down/And with my fond dreams I would my love surround."

"I dreamt last night that my true love came in/So slowly he came that his feet made no din/And I thought that he spoke and to me did say/"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day""

Was it his imagination or had her voice faltered with the final verse? He had heard the bliss in her voice with the second, and yet there had been . . . pain at the end? Unless . . . could she possibly . . . had she been thinking of him? He moved silently, often startling her in days gone by. And then there had been that night, the last time they had been together: had things gone to plan, that would have been their wedding night. Or at least given the sure promise of one.

Pushing aside the achingly unearthly vision of her in the bridal gown, he entered. The two figures at the piano looked up, both clearly surprised by his appearance.

"May we help you, Mr. Destler?" Arneau asked, a hint of knowing in his tone. Looking into the familiar blue orbs of his rose, he answered.

"I was hoping I might hear you practice for a while." The pair exchanged looks as he waited with bated breath – a sensation which was only heightened as she walked towards him.

"Well now, that all depends," in Katie the brogue had been part of the charm, in Christine that was also the case, if only it didn't grate so much – he had never hated the sound of her voice, and he certainly didn't want to start now, "would ye be willin' to do me a favour if I say 'aye'?"

Her absence had made him think the worst. That crooked grin on those far too tantalising lips had him willing to agree to anything if only she would let him stay.

"What would you have me do?"

The smile she gave was filled with the same abandon she had shown during _Mo Ghile Mear_ and he found himself echoing it with one of his own – which only grew when she took his arm and led him to the piano.

"Ye see, Danny boy here has had me go over this song," she showed him the sheet music for _Our Wedding Day_ – why had she not said the words? "I don't know how many times, but there's still somethin' missin'. Now I reckon it's 'cause we're tryin' to do it Katie's way, an' I'm no Katie. And you're comin' in has given me an idea."

"I'm intrigued."

"As am I, lass. What are you up to?" Danny enquired with a note of wariness he didn't try to hide.

Christine moved over to the side of the room and once more Erik felt as though he'd lost a limb. Still, the sight of her fishing around in a bag that looked as though it had no end was amusing enough to keep him by the piano. Eventually, she surfaced with the sheets she had obviously been looking for; an adorable look of triumph on her face that reminded him of when she had first danced _Chanson Bo-_ no! calm down.

"There's another song like this one and I've always thought it weird, 'cause it's usually sung by a lass, but it's like the lad's side o' tings. What I'm reckonin', is if we keep the music as is, but we join the two songs together, folk'll get the full story an' you get to sing in my bit as well."

"But the last act is meant to be yours." he offered by way of a very feeble protestation.

"Aye, and the first two are meant to be yours, but look what happened to that idea." she replied with a far too self-assured smile on her face. Knowing he couldn't fight – and that he didn't want to, he repeated:

"What would you have me do?"

Outlining her idea – and securing Danny's approval – she handed him the sheet music to look over. Of course, it took him all of about thirty seconds before he indicated to Arneau that he was ready. Danny looked at him in surprise. Christine looked at him with a quiet recognition and delight.

"Seeing as you're both so confident, why don't we try a proper run-through?" Arneau asked, his voice riddled with scepticism, which the two performers could only smile about – when they weren't facing him, of course.

Christine's plan had been a little vague in places as she'd been relating it, but once the music began, they went to work unheeded by that minor technicality.

From one corner of the room, Christine slowly, dazedly made her way lightly to the centre as the introduction set the scene. When the first verse poured from her lips, she cast her spell. Her voice was soft, light, creating the impression that she was singing to herself, as though in a dream. She barely moved her hands, but when she sang of _'far better than my tongue can tell'_ her fingers rose to her mouth and lingered there as she smiled. The man in the opposite corner watched and understood what the bard meant when he'd written _'O, that I were a glove upon that hand . . .'_

The music went on quietly, refusing to wake her from such a sweet dreamlike state, and she moved forwards this time, though still heading towards the other side of the room. With this verse, her actions emulated the words as she fully gave herself over to the dream. Her hands flew up to the castle before smoothing out the laurel on which she would lie. When she closed her eyes in what could only be described as bliss, wrapping her arms around herself; Erik had to once again fight an overwhelming urge to be by her side.

Again, the bridge played out. Christine remained fixed in her position as he slowly made his way towards her.

"My young love said to me, "My mother won't mind/And my father won't slight you for your lack of kind"/And she stepped away from me and this she did say/"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day""

His voice was intoxicating in its sweetness causing the melody to wrap around her like the most tender of a lover's caresses. As he sang the third line, she did indeed step away from him, though his hands were mere inches from her shoulders – although it was worth her absence as she looked at him, her lips moving in perfect synchronisation with his for the final line.

"She stepped away from me and she moved through the fair/And fondly I watched her move here and move there/And she made her way homeward with one star awake/As the swan in the evening moves over the lake"

Indeed he did watch her, as she lightly stepped here and there across the room; her movements in echo of the dreamlike state she had created in her verses, her dance meaning she kept looking back to him. As he sang, the music rose in a crescendo, building up and drawing the two to face one another.

For the final verse, Christine joined him, though she sang the words from her portion of the song as they slowly moved ever nearer to one another, their Music becoming as one.

"Last night she came to me, she came softly in/So softly she came that her feet made no din/And she laid her hand on me and this she did say/"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day""

Christine did as the music commanded and laid her hand on him. He moved behind her, wrapping her in his arms as she had done to herself only moments ago; an embrace she willingly sank back against. His head bent down as she tilted hers up to meet him and they sang the embellished final line in perfect harmony; the lack of accompaniment making it all the more hauntingly beautiful.

Daniel could only stare in amazement. He already knew how good these two performers were. Having heard Christine's words on what there had been between them, he could only hope and pray as he saw them transfixed by one another.

Unable to bear it any more, Erik granted himself a small release as he pressed a kiss against Christine's forehead; making it as tender and poignant as the music they had just created together. All Christine could do was close her eyes as her hand ran up his arm a little, hopefully conveying to him that it was alright. When he pulled back, he looked down into her eyes and was overwhelmed by the depth of feeling he saw there; though he could not begin to fathom all that it was.

"Ahem."

Danny's gentle interruption had Christine's head leaning back into her Angel's shoulder briefly in the frustration he too was beginning to suffocate under.

"Thank you, Mr. Destler. That was masterfully done." Arneau said as he offered his hand.

Taking the offer and looking into the elder gentleman's eyes, Erik couldn't help but wonder just how much of that statement had been in reference to the music. He was soon answered by Arneau taking Christine's arm and leading her back to the piano, his look indicating that it would be wise for him to leave. With one last look at the woman who never ceased to tantalise and torment simply by being; he left, knowing full well that for both their sakes, it would be unwise of him to stay.

He made his way back to the stage and watched as the various crew members scurried around, creating the setting wherein he would finally give his music to the world and where – no matter how briefly – he would be able to be with his Christine and once more create _their_ music. How strange: even after all the rehearsals and talks with the managers, it still felt . . . wrong to be out here with the others, watching their comings and goings in plain sight. He could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times it had felt right to be on that stage, without the old wariness surfacing, making him resent anyone who came near: he could probably count that on the fingers of one hand, because that was about the number that he had been with her. For all that this concert was about Katie, he knew that his portion at least would be for Christine: no one else had ever truly shed light on the darkness of his music.

Realising that that darkness was beginning to fill the auditorium, he slowly began the trek back, knowing that every step would take him out of The Clover, away from the music and away from her. Of course, that's probably why his steps led him straight back to the practice room. There was no one else about but even had there been, he still wouldn't have felt a fool for standing there with his head against the door; lacking the strength to enter, devoid of the will to leave. Though leave he did when the sound of footsteps drew near from within. Ducking around a corner, he saw Arneau leave – and had to fight a powerful urge to throttle him for his earlier interruptions. Rushing over to the slightly ajar portal, he stopped short of entering when he saw her: she was leaning over a CD player. Surely Arneau was up to the task, why had she . . .?

She remained near the box, as though unwilling to move. A piano broke the silence, accompanied by melancholy strings; though they were nothing to the dejected sorrow that filled her voice.

"Take the wave now and know that you're free, Turn your back on the land, face the sea, Face the wind now, so wild and so strong, When you think of me, wave to me and send me a song."

"Don't look back when you reach the new shore, Don't forget what you're leaving me for, Don't forget when you're missing me so, Love must never hold, never hold tight, but let go."

The two verses came with barely a breath in between as though she wanted to give voice to them while she could. The piano took over and she finally began to meander aimlessly about the room. From his vantage point, he could see her face clearly and he felt as though he were looking upon her very soul. But for the hair, he was beholding his Christine, guileless, unhidden. And so utterly broken. What had happened to her? Where was the joy that had filled her so easily only hours ago?

"Oh the nights will be long/When I'm not in your arms/But I'll be in this song/That you sing to me across the sea/Somehow, someday . . ."

The music was low, the tempo unhurried. The music was unworthy of her in every way and yet there was such a painful clarity in the way she sang the words that it fit her perfectly. Who was she singing of? Surely not the _boy_ – why sing of distance and music . . . no . . .

"You will be far away/So far from me/And maybe one day/I will follow you in all you do/'Til then, send me a song"

Was it possible? He was impatient with both piano and guitar as they silenced his rose's voice. Such poignant sweetness, if only . . .

"When the sun sets the water on fire/When the wind swells the sails ever higher/Let the call of the bird on the wing/Calm your sadness and loneliness and then start to sing to me"

"I will sing to you/If you promise to send me a song"

She sang of calming the one to whom it was addressed; in doing so, her voice lightened as though she herself were calmed in the process until all of a sudden: she remembered she was a soprano. Briefly – all too briefly – her voice rose to touch the heavens. And yet she did not stay. Was the unworthiness not in the music . . . but in her? How could that be?

A penny whistle joined, its higher pitch seeming to give her the wings she had just sung of, warming her voice as the piano encouraged her to a crescendo that was finally worthy of her.

"I walk by the shore and I hear/Hear your song come so faint and so clear/And I catch it, a breath on the wind/And I smile and I sing you a song, I will send you a song

"I will sing you a song/I will sing to you/If you promise to send me a song"

Finally, she faded away on the closing sentiment as though she dared not make the wish but couldn't do otherwise.

Seeing her in the middle of that room, head bowed, eyes shut in mournful longing; he could barely hold himself back from her side. Yet once again, he denied her his presence, for once again a plan had formed in his mind. Silently closing the door, he allowed her the privacy she had so evidently sought. Retreating into the depths of the theatre, he took up his old mantle and soon disappeared within the darkness; hidden from the eyes of even those who passed within inches of him. There in the shadows he waited until night descended: until he could be alone with his rose.

He longed to be with her at that moment, knowing she needed him.

But she needed her Angel.

With that strange, sad song, she had cried out to her Angel. In doing so she had given him hope beyond any that he had ever dared imagine before. In doing so, she had also asked of him a request.

She needed her Angel and her Angel would answer.

He would send her a song.

* * *

**AN: The songs are once again from _Celtic Woman_ and _Lord of the Dance._ I've been over my reviews for this story with a fine tooth comb and I couldn't find the person who recommended 'Send Me A Song', which means it was probably at some point during _A Father's Promise_. Whoever you are, thank you and that was for you. If anyone else is wondering: that song does have a point aside from being recommended. Thanks again. N.**


	12. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: To KyrieofAccender, Passed Over, chrys.cadis.chasa, Lili Sinclair, OperaLover, Spectralprincess, saphireangelcutie, phantomjedi1, StakeMeSpike04 and mildetryth: guys, there is nothing I can write here that can say how much your messages meant to me. 'Thank you' says so much and yet doesn't begin to say enough, but my heartfelt gratitude is yours.**

**Thanks to mildetryth, Lady Winifred, jtbwriter, Nyasia A. Maire, OperaLover, UinenDolothen, -19MikaelA87-, Timeflies, StakeMeSpike04, KyrieofAccender, montaquecat, laal ratty and OceansAway for their latest reviews.**

**A special super duper thank you to StakeMeSpike04 for being the one to recommend _'Send Me A Song'. _Sorry I couldn't find the reference. Must have been for A Father's Promise. But again, huge thanks for that.**

**I know I asked for time and thank you for your indulgence. However, the story I wrote for my cousin only took a day. For those who referred to it: I'm afraid it's not the kind I'll be posting here because it's completely original work. Sorry if anyone's disappointed. To make up for it, however: I have a double update for you. Picked yourselves up off the floor? Yes, a double update. Although, it's not entirely unselfish of me: I figured if I didn't give you two chapters, I'd be in a lot of trouble at the end of this one! Enough hints. The wait is over! Go read! Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.

Chapter 11

He was determined to drive her mad.

It was the only thing she could think of. _He_ was the only thing she could think of. She had wanted to scream when Danny had taken her away for rehearsal; and yet at the same time she had felt an overwhelming . . . relief. The first time she had heard his voice again, she knew that no matter what she tried, she would be forever bound to her Angel. Agreeing to rehearse with him had felt like heaven until he had taken the place of that dancer. Then . . . was there even a word for such ecstasy? She found herself grateful that it was not truly his music – even though it had been graced with his touch . . . _his touch_ . . . His music alone had been enough to overwhelm her. To be a part of his music, to have him move as a lover . . . she had been completely consumed. Even had she tried not to give herself up to it, it would have taken only one bar of that . . . of him before she surrendered. As in _Don Juan Triumphant_, she was burning in the fires of her Angel's music, his passion, his lo-

Was it possible? Everything he had said, done; his every look and caress had dared her to hope that in spite of everything it was not too late. Even after she'd hurt him, betrayed him before the Ravelle; even after she'd left him, was there still hope that those four words still held true?

_Christine, I love you . . ._

No matter what happened she would never forget those words. Nor could she ever forget the way he had finally delivered them. Whether they were true or not, evidently it hadn't been enough. He had sent her away.

Yet here he was, weaving his magic of old, drawing her in effortlessly; and she all too willingly followed his slightest command. She was being utterly consumed by her Angel, and though it were to break her as thoroughly as the last time, she was powerless to resist. Even if she'd wanted to.

She had been relieved when Danny had taken her away though. Her Angel's every touch still burned like a brand on her body. And there had been a _lot_. Each note that he'd sung since he'd came, even the words he spoke; his voice drowned out every other coherent sound in her head until even in the depths of the theatre, in her mother's sanctuary: there was nothing but her Angel. She heard nothing but her Angel; felt nothing but her Angel. Yet she could not see him. He wasn't there. Whether she woke or slept – as she discovered the night after _Chanson Boheme_ – her every thought was focussed on him and yet he was not there.

He was determined to drive her mad. And though she was drowning, she was loving every second of it.

Spending the day with Danny had been wonderful. Going over the familiar songs, making them her own was nothing short of a delight. Being able to work with the orchestra on a few had been incredible. Experiencing the joys she knew her mother had felt brought her closer to that woman than she had ever dreamt. Having known her only six short years, her memories were not what she would have wished. Being a part of her world though enriched the few she had beyond compare. And yet, it wasn't quite right. Danny had not been short of suggestions for improvements, a lot of which she had tried. It was only moments before they were interrupted that it had come to her: this was her mother's music.

As a child, she had thought she'd understood what her mother had meant in rebuking her daughter for wanting to sing like her. Now though, she knew it wasn't simply a matter of being encouraged to realise her own potential. So long as she tried – even if it was only a little – to recreate her mother's music, she would inevitably fail and let more than herself down in the process. It had been so easy with _Ode to Joy_ and _Mo Ghile Mear_ to be herself – she'd worked on one for herself before and the other had been noticeably different.

They'd been different because _he_ had been there.

He was the one who had given her Music, and so he would always be a part of it. Otherwise it was destined to be just notes.

That was why – in spite of her earlier misgivings – she was overjoyed to see her Angel to hear him wanting to be a part of her music; and to have him actually be a part of her music.

She hadn't needed to pretend she was in a daze as she'd sung this time: she felt as though she were up amongst the clouds. When he'd begun to sing, she had fallen once more and was lost to the fire of his voice though it was soft and inviting, caressing her in a way Bizet's offerings never could hope to aspire to. As with _Chanson Boheme_, with him as a part of the music, there had been no part to play: she had simply followed the music and allowed herself to pour out to her Angel. Touching him again, having his arms around her: she had sunk back into him, completing her surrender. She was lost and she never wanted to be found.

When his lips had pressed against her forehead, it had been just like at the Ravelle. Encompassed by music, there was nothing else save the two of them alone. And it was rapture. She had longed to tilt her head and raise her mouth to his. Instead, she allowed him to finish the caress, hoping he would understand the plea of her eyes when he looked at her.

For all that she cared about him, she _really_ wanted to thump Danny when he reminded them that he was in the room. But he had broken the spell. Her earlier thoughts returned, and she could not help but let him lead her away. No matter what they stirred up in each other, unless her Angel was willing to forgive her, she knew it wouldn't be enough. For either of them.

At last, Danny released her, satisfied with her portion of the programme and having scheduled rehearsal time for the last couple of pieces. She ran a hand through her hair, and once again wished it were different. Turning to the CD player she'd smuggled in – in spite of Danny's protestations – she rummaged through her bag and found the CD case she was looking for. Flipping through the discs, she wondered which to try. As always, her fingers lighted over the one that fit the moment perfectly.

She had dreaded the composition element of her degree. Though light in comparison with other courses, it was nevertheless the most daunting aspect of her studies. Her Angel being gone, she had been left devoid of music, unable to even perform as she once had. Yet strangely, when left to her own abandon, the notes and the words had poured onto the page as naturally as if they were coming from her lips. Although having said that, it wasn't all that strange: there was hardly a phrase or melody that wasn't devoted to or inspired by her Angel.

The one that she had chosen to rehearse spoke of the one wish she had never managed to let go of: that somehow, someday, he would send her a song; that he would return to her the music which had been torn away with his presence. But the song had also been one of closure: through those words, she had been letting him go, letting him live and with the hope that one day she too might be able to. The nights had indeed been long without him – longer still now that he was so near – and yet she had always hoped that one day, she would hear his music even if it was only faintly.

Their schedules had been gruelling. She had a full act to prepare from scratch, and he had two to set up and arrange to suit his expectations – which was probably the harder job as far as his co-workers were concerned. With all the practices and running around, they had barely had two minutes together unless they were performing. And the words they had shared: she had been hiding beneath the O'Neill mantle just as surely as he had once hidden within the shroud of darkness. No matter how tiresome she remembered that distance being when they had first begun her lessons; still she couldn't come out from under her shield. There was nothing about the concert that wasn't taxing – and after nearly three years of a schedule that went beyond exhausting, she ended each day feeling thoroughly drained. Summoning the strength to truly face her Angel with all that had passed between them was not something she felt she could do this side of the concert – knowing full well what that performance alone would cost her.

So once again, feeling tired beyond measure but safe within the confines of her mother's old quarters, she freed herself of the O'Neill guise; all but sighing with relief at being able to feel like herself – and not have to worry about the brogue! Not bothering with a drink or any further refreshment, she collapsed on the old bed and sank into its familiar comfort; almost able to imagine her mother was holding her instead of the well-worn springs.

This night as with the last, sleep had not come to claim her no matter how much her body protested the need. This night as with the last, she had instead smiled as she simply listened: to _Music!_ Since he had worked with her on _Mo Ghile Mear_, she had felt . . . alive! And with that life had returned the full use of her senses and after three agonising years of oppressive silence, she had awakened to hear all the music within The Clover; but most of all, she heard _his_ music. Somewhere in the mix, she could detect her own every now and again, but that was not what she focussed on. Instead she closed her eyes, opened up her mind and let her fantasies unwind in the darkness which she dared not fight any longer: the darkness of her Angel's music.

How long she had lain there last night before sleep eventually suspended being and claimed her, remained a mystery. Equally, she couldn't tell how long she had spent lying there this night, luxuriating in the echo of Music's sweet breath. But somewhere in the depths of her mind, some part of her recognised that she was no longer hearing a mere echo and recognition made her eyes fly open. Rising, her feet led her of their own accord out of her room. Ignoring her lack of dressing gown or slippers, she followed the music, lured by its enchanting call through the bowels of the theatre. Heedless of the dark, of her surroundings, she let the sound of the piano draw her nearer and nearer to the mastery of its spell; binding her ever closer to the one who played the very fabric of her soul as expertly as the ivory keys beneath his fingers. Reaching the stage she saw him in the midst of the shadows as his hands caressed the keys. With each touch of a note, she longed to be under those fingers. Content to simply stand there and bask in the magic of her Angel, she froze as the piano stopped and another more glorious and more terrible instrument took its place. Before he began the accompaniment again, she had sunk to her knees, her hand covering her mouth to hold back the sobs, though nothing could stem the tide of her tears.

* * *

The wait had been long, but he knew it would be worth it. 

Patience was not something he had ever struggled with as far as his rose was concerned, but these last few days . . . there simply weren't words. She was as near and as far as she had ever been and in spite of all that his music had done, it still felt as though he hadn't reached her.

And then she had reached out to him.

Finally satisfied that no one was around and that the hour was ripe, he emerged from the shadows though still remaining a part of them, having fallen back into the old habit with ease. Making his way down to the stage, he looked at the piano there. It was not a new instrument by any means, but being a well-loved member of The Clover, its condition was as pristine as any instrument of his own.

Almost.

His most precious instrument, the one he had crafted with more love and care than anything else was lying somewhere in this theatre in a condition that was anything but pristine. Hovering his hands above the keys in a habitual but heartfelt sign of respect, he acquainted himself with the piano before he set to work on restoring his most treasured instrument.

After some minutes, he had to catch himself: having fallen prey to his own music, he had temporarily lost sight of his true purpose. Bringing the melody to something that sounded like a natural conclusion – perhaps he would refine it later – he took a breath and filled his thoughts with his rose, his inspiration: his Christine. Following the split second that that took, he focussed on the night he had first composed and played this. He had wanted to know if she heard not only music, but if she could hear him. He remembered the night he had sung it to her: she had been so afraid after those _fools_ had broken into his house and hunted her. And his music, his gift to her had brought her through the darkness of both nights. He did not know the true colours of the darkness she had seemed to be caught in when he watched her practice alone; only that he could not bear to see her trapped within its confines.

Filling his voice with all the power he possessed, he gently broke the silence that had momentarily descended and offered this gift to her a third time, knowing that if she was within the theatre, he would be heard.

"No one would listen/No one but her/Heard as the outcast hears."

Lightly, he stroked the keys, enriching the song; all the while his fingers felt the touch of Christine beneath them. Pouring out his pain, he went on:

"Shamed into solitude/Shunned by the multitude/I learned to listen; In my dark, my heart heard music.

"I longed to teach the world/Rise up and reach the world/No one would listen – I alone could hear the music."

His voice and playing rose with the hope that she had brought to him.

"Then at last, a voice in the gloom/Seemed to cry, 'I hear you! I hear your fears/Your torment and your tears!'"

Calming the excitement in his voice those thoughts always evoked, he focussed on her.

"She saw my loneliness/Shared in my emptiness; No one would listen/No one but her/Heard as the outcast hears."

"No one would listen/No one but her/Heard as the outcast hears."

His fingers froze at the last phrase.

His voice went on, sounding breathless for the first time as he heard a tentative soprano rising in a slow and perfect harmony,

_Heard as the outcast hears._

Barely able to breathe, he turned on the piano stool to the wing where that angelic sound had echoed from. There in the darkness, he saw an ethereal figure in a simple white gown of silk, golden strands of hair cascading over her shoulders and framing her face. His heart ached at the sight of his Christine – but not for her beauty. Instead, it all but stopped at the sight of her curled in the corner, tears pouring down her face and a broken look of anguish marring those perfect features. Soundlessly springing to his feet, he hurried near, wanting to take her in his arms and ease the sorrow she now bore, even if he had been the one to cause it.

Until she shrank away.

Crouching down, his eyes silently pleaded with her where words failed.

_How could you?_

Her words came out on a sob and he was as broken as they sounded.

Watching her run away, all he could do was finish his descent to the floor, feeling the bitter sting of failure and isolation all over again.

* * *

**AN: PUT THOSE LASSOS AWAY!! I said there was another chapter:) N.**


	13. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of _The Phantom of the Opera_ on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.

Chapter 12

She raced along the corridors, heedless of all else save her goal of sanctuary and solitude.

The rehearsal was an absolute disaster! Oh, the orchestra had played well and accomplished all that she needed them to – and more besides – yet still they insisted that it wasn't enough. Even Danny had begun to press her for what he knew would be an arduous task in spite of claiming to know just how difficult it would be. To face hours of that after a complete lack of rest the previous night . . .

Perhaps her Angel truly was a ghost after all: he seemed determined to haunt her.

Why was it always the men in her life who drove her mad? Refusing to fall down that path of her mind again; she had instead chosen another route and run out of the rehearsal an hour ahead of schedule, sinking into the maze of corridors which usually concealed her so well.

Except for when she ran into someone.

That someone had been coming round a corner just as she was turning it, her momentum almost making her fall if it hadn't been for the fact that he'd caught her. That same someone halted her hurried apology as soon as she saw whose arms she was in: that same someone whom she had run from last night. His surprise swiftly slipped away, to be replaced by a determination she recognised from before: a determination which told her without a shadow of a doubt that his arms would not be releasing her any time soon.

"O'Neill!"

Her head briefly whipped round to the sound of Danny's voice, an expression of frustration and despair filling her features. Seeing that, hearing the call and knowing it potentially meant their inopportune separation yet again; Erik reached for the wall to his right and the mark that had once been so familiar to him. Finding it, he pushed the panel aside and pulled her up against him and through the wall. Caught off guard the old fears flooded her senses. She tensed and would have cried out but for the hand that rose to her mouth.

_Christine_

Her movements froze. The hold, though remaining firm, relaxed on her slightly, allowing her to turn. There he was, resplendent in all his dark glory: her Angel, looking down at her, an unreadable expression on his face. Softly she fell against him, wanting to forget the darkness and the clarity it gave to everything.

He allowed her to sink into his arms and allowed himself to complete the embrace having remembered her fears a moment too late. Slightly muffled, he heard footsteps going past and Arneau's sporadic calls moving further away. Lowering his head, he whispered into her ear:

"Do you know how to get out of here?"

Though she could barely see, she looked up at his face in surprise, nodding. He turned her so that she was facing the wall opposite their entrance. Stepping forward slightly, she moved her hands in a manner that echoed his own. Her sigh of relief was audible when the panel slid aside to reveal . . . was that the inside of a wardrobe? After he'd given her a reassuring nudge forward, she pushed away the covered gowns, opened the door and stepped through into Katie's dressing room. Silently he followed and watched as she slowly and deliberately took in her surroundings; rubbing her arms as though to coax warmth back into them.

She moved towards the dressing table and let her hands hover over a few items there, though she did not touch. The little ritual seemed to give her strength because her fingers stopped their trembling. It wasn't entirely successful however: seeing her reflection in the mirror, her face was as troubled as it had been in the corridor.

"What did Arneau do to upset you?" he asked gently.

She started as though she'd forgotten he was there. Looking at him in the mirror, it was as though an invisible veil fell over her features though the effect was clear.

"Nothin'. 'Twere just a rehearsal that could o' gone better." she whispered hollowly.

Silently he moved to stand behind her. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he turned her to look at him. Tipping up her chin he coaxed her eyes to meet his, examining what lay within the orbs.

"What happened?" he persisted.

Giving up or giving in – she wasn't sure which and she didn't care – Christine let out a dry sob as she once more fell against her Angel, this time holding on to him out of need and want rather than reflex. Surprised by her action, he stumbled a little. Taking hold of her, he moved them over to the old worn couch where he sat and she all but climbed onto his lap as she leant against him, her body drawn across his chest and her arms wrapped around his as her head rested in the crook of his shoulder. She refused to shed anymore tears but that did nothing to hold back the tremors that shook her.

He held onto her almost as tightly as she clung to him. Where had the confidence gone? Where was the woman who had commanded the attention of an entire room with her very presence? Was this the woman who had captured the admiration of an entire opera house; the one who lay quivering in his arms like the petals of a rose caught in a wind? Yes, this was his rose. At last, she was _his_.

"It's so strange: every time I've seen you, you've run from me, yet now you hold on as though you'll never let go." She raised her eyes to his, full of regret.

"Stay?"

It was nothing by way of an explanation, but the one word offered without a hint of brogue was a more effective apology than any amount of eloquence could produce. In response he tightened his hold and lightly rubbed her back. Both of them groaned when the knock came later on the door – although Christine's was the audible one.

"I hate that sound." she whispered, making him smile at the memories before she called out in a thick accent that bespoke her annoyance:

"Who is it?"

"Lass, tell me what happened?" Danny's voice came through the door. Turning in Erik's arms, she ended up lying stretched on the sofa with his arm and knees as her pillow.

"Aye."

Taking his cue, Arneau entered only to be about as shocked as Erik at the redhead's new and rather odd position.

"Lass, what . . . ?"

"Danny, if you want another rehearsal can ye at least pick a different number?"

"Arneau, what happened?" Erik demanded, having yet to receive an answer.

"We were rehearsing the finale. It was difficult, but everything was going smoothly and the orchestra are ready for the day after tomorrow."

"The orchestra?" he asked Arneau, thoroughly puzzled.

"She told us before we started that she wouldn't be singing, and it seems a few of the musicians thought that was only in the early stages so when Miss O'Neill explained that she wouldn't be singing before the concert . . . it didn't go down very well."

All the while, Christine had her eyes closed, her hand holding onto one of Erik's.

"And what is the finale?" halting the immediate protestations of the other two occupants of the room, he swiftly elaborated, "I know the finale remains a mystery until opening night. Why won't you even sing until then?"

"Nelly, lass, believe me: I know it's hard-"

"You don't," she flashed back, "Danny, I know how much she meant to ye, and that ye knew what this song originally meant to her." She closed her eyes again, thinking of how to phrase it without giving too much away – of the mystery or herself. "She always made it music when she performed it – she couldnae help doin' that – but she only ever sang it and _really_ _**sang**_ it twice on that stage. The first time she did, she was agreein' to marry the man she loved. E'er since then, no one in her family has played, sung, performed or anythin' that song alone. There's always been someone else. It used to be that it was ne'er performed unless everyone was there, but that rule had to change a few years back.

"Danny, I know ye miss her somethin' fierce even after all these years but what ye dinnae realise is that I've _ne'er_ sung this without one or both of 'em bein' there – I havenae sung it since before me Da . . . since he died." Here she tightened her hold on her Angel, who in turn cuddled her closer.

"Danny, if I sing that song, I'll be puttin' the last nail in both their coffins. The concert cannae end any other way and I have got _one_ chance, just one chance to pull it off, and if you or the orchestra cannae forgive me for not blowin' that on a rehearsal, I'd better not be hearin' any more aboot it." Her brogue thickened immensely with the last portion of her explanation, almost to the point of being indecipherable – though the meaning could not have been clearer.

"I suspected something like that, but I didn't realise it had been carried on so strongly. Forgive me, my dear."

"Ach, ye're alright Danny boy." she replied, curling up against her 'cushion', the two of them finally beginning to feel comfortable.

"That is a relief. And now, Miss O'Neill, would you mind telling me just how I am to appease my orchestra?"

Christine looked at him, a wicked glint in her eye and her mouth set in firm resolve.

"Is this The Clover or not?"

"An O'Neill is asking me that? Of course it is!"

"Then what are they skreiking for? If they've earned a place at The Clover, then they're good enough to work without causing all this fuss."

"Now why didn't we think of that sooner?" Daniel mused with a smile.

"Ach, they were bein' too awkward." she answered with a grin.

"O'Neill!" Christine covered her face with her hand. Having introduced herself to the wardrobe mistress – and avoided no end of grief had she otherwise failed to do so – and bumped into her several times along the corridors, she was all too familiar with the firm, no-nonsense voice of the dwarf-like seamstress. And she recognised well enough the tone that said she was in trouble.

Arneau recognised it too, which is why he beat a rather hasty retreat – which meant that he ended up bumping into Victoria Jammes; quite literally. His apologies were both profuse and funny, but short-lived as that woman was on a mission. Christine tried to get up, but was held firmly in place by her 'cushion'. She looked up at him in question, and received only a knowing, almost cheeky smirk in reply.

"O'Neill, what in the blazes-"

She caught sight of the pair and instantly halted whatever she'd been about to say. Instead, she crossed her arms and started tapping her foot at which Erik promptly picked a very surprised Christine up in his arms and carried her over to obediently stand before the petite intruder.

"Mademoiselle Jammes, I have one O'Neill ready for her fitting. Where would you like me to deliver her?" How the barely 5" 2' woman managed to stare down the Phantom, Christine would never know. But at length, he bowed his head in submission – and missed the smirk that was twitching about the lips of the two women.

"Wardrobe and be quick about it."

The trio made quite a sight – a dwarf and a shadow with a redhead in his arms – as they headed towards the deceptively small wardrobe department. It was actually far larger than it looked, but was so filled with costumes old and new, bolts of fabric and various weird and wonderful sewing machines – some of which looked as much like antiques as Mademoiselle Jammes herself – that there was hardly any room to move about in.

"Well, put her down, man. I can't fit you like that." Jammes chastised after he had stood there for a few minutes whilst she bustled about getting various bits and pieces that had been hidden who knew where. Tossing him a costume from a pile that had his name marked all over it, she shooed him out of sight and Christine heard a curtain being drawn, surprised that he was being given a fitting at the same time.

"O'Neill," she called sharply and Christine found herself being shooed behind a curtain nearby where a costume was already hanging in a cover.

"Now get that on and let's see what needs doing. I don't know how I'm supposed to work with deadlines like this . . ." her voice faded as she moved away bemoaning the time frame she'd been put under with the last minute additions to the concert.

Christine shook her head good-humouredly, understanding why her mother had found Victoria so much fun. The smile disappeared from her face when she opened the garment bag and saw the contents. So that was why they were being fitted together. Automatically she slipped her own black ensemble off and reached for the skirt and blouse, bringing them over her head before wrestling with the corset. There was a mirror in the little cubicle but she kept her back to it. Keeping her chin up, she refused to look down at the garments. They were well chosen for Carmen, capturing the gypsy look perfectly; plus it would be easy enough to exude sensuality in such a form fitting and revealing costume.

"O'Neill, are you done yet?"

Slowly she pulled the curtain aside and let Mademoiselle Jammes in to assess any work that needed to be done; knowing there was none. Still she stood and obeyed the wardrobe mistress' instructions whilst that was confirmed. After turning one final time, Jammes drew the curtain back and Christine's eyes locked with those of her 'Don Jose' who was outfitted in an equally familiar fashion.

"Well thank you, Mr. Destler; doesn't look like I need to be doing anything. O'Neill, I'll check what you've brought and see if it'll match any of his – unless you two have something particular in mind for the 'Wedding' number."

Bustling off, she left the two standing unmoved. Christine remained partially hidden by the curtain, but her attire was clear to see, and he took in every inch of her that he could. Stepping closer, he took her hand and drew her out into the open, though she kept her right arm behind her as much as possible.

"Exquisite. But something's missing."

He drew her in front of the larger mirror and stood behind her, his hands vanishing from sight until one appeared near her right ear where he tucked a perfect red rose. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he spoke straight into her right ear.

"Now I see Carmen."

Finally remembering to breathe, Christine answered in a shuddering breath without any hint of an Irish brogue:

"I see Aminta. And I see Don Juan."

Turning her by the shoulders, he once more took in the sight of her: so beautiful, so alluring. So broken. His hand on her right shoulder found the slight roughness beneath and he caught sight of the scars that had been forgotten and she had not had chance to hide – the undeniable mark of . . .

_Christine_

"Why are you doing this?" she pleaded. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he replied:

"How else was I to draw you out?"

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but his were two panes she could not bear to see through and she moved away.

"Even now you turn from me? Is my presence here really so distasteful to you?" he asked with a voice marred by pain and sudden bitterness.

Whirling round, he barely ignored how much of her legs were revealed, so intent was he on her face.

"How can you say that?" she demanded, causing him to flinch.

"You asked me a similar question last night, _Miss O'Neill._" releasing a sigh of frustration and resignation in an effort to calm himself, he proceeded, "If my being here truly disturbs you so much, then I shall leave you alone save for when we perform-"

"No!" Christine managed to choke out as she clung to his arm. Instantly seizing possession of her waist, he took her chin in one hand and demanded,

"Why did you run from me, Christine? _WHY?_ 'How could I "_what"_?' What is it that makes you run from me one instant and finds you in my arms the next?"

Tears pooled in her eyes, but still he held fast, demanding an answer as much with his vehement words as with his silence.

"How could you sing those words for me . . . about me . . . after everything I did to you?"

"After everything . . . _you_ did?" his grip on her gentled, though it did not loosen, "Christine, you did what no other person has . . ." taking his words as an accusation, she tried to pull away in self-loathing, but instead he slowly and firmly drew her into a tender embrace, "this."

For the first time since knowing they were back under the same roof, Erik held Christine in his arms with no walls between them. Pulling back slightly, she looked up into his face, searching it, tentatively asking:

"Angel?"

Smiling, he replied:

"Christine."

Breaking out into the biggest grin he had seen on her face yet, she threw her arms around his neck in an almost strangling hold – though he would have gladly forgone breathing for the sake of the moment.

"I don't understand. What magic led you here and onto the stage?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yours, my rose. You told me to live." Hesitantly she raised her hand to the right side of his face, her eyes asking the permission her words dared not. Just as hesitantly, he lowered his cheek into her palm, his eyes closing in ecstasy as he savoured her touch, her caress.

"How?" she whispered.

"Surgery." Hearing the sounds of Mademoiselle Jammes' imminent return, he asked hurriedly, "I'll tell you later. May I see you after rehearsals?" She stood on her toes, placing her hands on his shoulders for support and pressed her cheek against his right one as she spoke into his ear,

"Since when did my Angel need to ask? You can see me during them if you like."

Just before the wardrobe mistress burst through the door, Christine pressed a kiss against her Angel's now unmarred features. Quirking an eyebrow, she continued,

"We have a lot of catching up to do."

Although whether that was in reference to their conversation or the kiss would keep her Angel guessing for quite some time.

"Well, O'Neill, is that costume alright, or are you going for that red and black number I keep hearing about?"

She exchanged a look with her mentor and knew the answer.

"Aside from the obscene split in this skirt or the indecent neckline – oh and by the way, there's no way these sleeves are goin' tae stay up – it should be fine so long as Mr. Destler here remembers not to spin me onto my right; else me leg won't be good fer much else." Christine answered in good-humoured indignation.

"I'm sure I can manage that."

"Well, I've had a look at what you've brought. You're going for the green, right?" Mademoiselle Jammes turned Christine's attention back to the matter at hand.

"Of course."

"Well, Mr. Destler, do you have anything in mind for what you'll be wearing?" her tone suggested that he'd better not say 'no'.

"For what?"

"Our duet in the last act. Do you think you can find a pair of black trousers?" Christine replied, looking at her usually black-clad former mentor with that smirk on her face which only made him want to devour her mouth.

"I'm sure I can manage that." he repeated; the fact that he was humouring her being more prominent.

"I'll be right back."

"O'Neill! You're not going out like that!" Jammes called out. Christine ran back in and gratefully accepted the wardrobe mistress' assistance with getting out of the corset.

Once she'd disappeared off again, Erik turned to the little woman who was bustling around as usual.

"Didn't you notice?" She stopped moving and looked hard and long at him.

"If you mean her scars, it would be hard not to notice. You knew about them?"

"Yes."

"Then you know better than to speak about them. They're the sign of a love that people can only be described as blessed for having experienced. They're the marks of an equal pain which she hasn't stopped carrying. Besides, you'd only be adding to her hurt if you were drew attention to them anymore than she wants."

"You knew Katie well." Again she looked at him, weighing him up.

"I know her daughter too." She stood in front of him and tugged his head down so that he was at eye level with her, "Don't hurt her."

Surprise held him bent over a good few seconds after she went back to her bustling around. He only just managed to straighten up before Christine came back in with a parcel wrapped in white tissue paper, that smile on her face which he knew was for him.

"Well what have you got there, O'Neill?" Jammes asked, appearing out of nowhere and causing them both to start. Moving over to a table, Christine carefully unwrapped the package she held so delicately. Holding the pristine white garment out to her Angel in offering, she shyly met his eyes, wondering if he knew. Taking the shirt as carefully as it was offered, he went back to where he had changed the first time. He heard the call for Jammes as he removed the upper half of the Don Juan costume; heard her angry mutterings – most of which probably weren't fit for polite conversation – and was grateful to hear her leave as he slipped the shirt over his head. Tucking it in neatly, he was amazed at the perfect condition it was in.

Stepping out, he faced Christine who could only look at her mentor in wonder for now he truly looked like the man she remembered.

"You kept it?" he asked, gesturing to the fine linen he wore.

"So did you." she answered, looking down at her own garments from so long ago.

"You left it behind." he explained, stepping nearer to her.

"So did you." she whispered, hesitantly echoing his movements until they were barely a hair's breadth apart.

"This is what I think it is?" he enquired. Wordlessly, her eyes never leaving his, she let her fingers trace over the almost invisible line of small neat stitches; the pressure of her hand causing her fingers to move over the thin white scar which lay beneath.

Seizing that hand, he roughly brought it to his lips where he placed the softest yet heated of kisses into her palm. Christine's eyes fluttered shut with the sensation.

_Christine_

The one sacred word was a plea but also a promise. Looking into his eyes, she saw how much he was fighting himself – about as much she was struggling over the same battle within – but equally she saw that promise that he would wait. They still had a concert to give which both of them held dear. But even after three years apart, there remained too much between them for their reunion to be a light matter and his promise was that of so much more once Saturday evening was over.

Giving in and easing some of the palpable tension in the room, Christine brought her Angel's head down and rested it on his shoulder, holding onto him as fiercely as he wrapped his arms around her, straightening and lifting her off the ground so that she really was his.

"Ahem."

Christine tipped her head back, groaning loud enough for anyone outside to hear.

"Danny boy, you and I are going to have a serious falling out soon," she said without the brogue – and not entirely with good humour.

"I believe it was you who requested a different number. We do have a rehearsal to finish." he said quietly.

Resting her forehead in frustration against that of the Angel who still held her inches off the ground, she answered like an Irishwoman,

"Fine. I'll be there in a bit."

Opening her eyes, she looked into the captivated orbs of the one who again had bewitched her. Again, she pressed her right cheek against his, this time rubbing softly and slowly against the smooth skin.

"Are you coming?" she whispered in his ear.

"Do you think anything would keep me away?" he replied heatedly. Looking into his eyes again, she saw the Phantom of old looking back at her; but she saw her Angel as well.

Pressing a slow, lingering kiss against the cheek that had only recently known its first, she felt him ease her gently to the ground. Looking at him once more, she saw a stranger who was as familiar to her as the beat of her heart – and as vital – looking into his eyes, she saw Erik.

Smiling, she wrapped his arm around her waist as they headed off to her rehearsal.

Finally, she felt at home.

She was his.

* * *

**AN: Happy now? Am I forgiven? Oh come one, double update for the first time since this story started: plus some serious ECness that was actual ECness? You gotta put the ropes away for that:) Thanks, guys. N.**


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